Ashes of Eden
by Elita1Bashers
Summary: With the Decepticons emerging as victors of the Chicago-battle, life has been nothing but bleak for the remaining Autobots. Hunted to the corners of the galaxy and enslaved to the very cause they once fiercely opposed, the survivors must learn to adapt to a completely new reality: preferably with their sanity intact. [Megatron/OC], [Starscream/OC], [Soundwave/OC], [Shockwave/OC].
1. The Hell Cells

**A/N**

 **I don't like to bother people too much with these so just a few quick words. This is the rewrite of the formerly known "Moonlight Dancing," one of my older fics that was left uncompleted. If you've never read that fic, no worries! It won't affect your experience at all. If you** ** _have_** **read Moonlight Dancing, all goods! Hopefully there'll be enough changes to shake up the experience for you.**

 **Also, the rating may eventually be moved up, but that's about all from me. Enjoy! ^-^**

 **Important** **: this fic contain mature themes, some hella hopeless situations, as well as mentions of rape and other forms of abuse. It's just really, really quite dark.**

* * *

 _"A man will be imprisoned in a room with a door that's unlocked and opens inwards; as long as it does not occur to him to pull rather than push."_  
-Ludwig Wittgenstein-

Ever since her brother taught her how to laugh, humour had been a powerful defense mechanism for Sync.

Of course, it came easier to some than to others. Bumblebee had always possessed a reckless optimism and amicable nature that made his humour infectious to everyone around him. Laughing had been easy with Bee around. Decepticons could be on the verge of peeling away your armour and throwing your still-screaming protoform into a smelting pit, and Bee would find a way to bring a smile to your faceplate. Nobody would argue the claim that Bumblebee had been all the brightness of Cybertron's suns concentrated into the form of one Transformer.

Sync, on the other hand, had been gifted with a far more selfish humour - quick wit, and a sharp glossa. Somebody always had to be the butt of her jokes. There was always a sarcastic quip or provoking remark to be made at someone else's expense. Perhaps that had been part of the reason why Prime had chosen to take her brother, and not her. Perhaps if she had been a little more like the courageous scout, a little more bot-friendly, it would be her empty husk lying abandoned on Earth instead of his.

At least he would've been able to find some humour in her current situation.

Sync's gears groaned in protest as she adjusted her position, attempting to ease the stiffness that had inevitably set in from her newly sedentary lifestyle. Layers of grime caked her once luster hues, accentuated by the dirt and grit that had gradually accumulated between her cogs. She could not even guess the number of solar cycles that had passed since her last shower. When she had first been captured by the Decepticon hunting parties, she hadn't believed life could get any worse than being buffed until her armour was almost blinding, her shiny chassis twisted and flaunted to potential buyers.

That's what she'd believed, until she'd bitten and spat at one too many of said buyers and been moved to the retraining center.

Showers were a faraway thought, now.

 _You never were good at appreciating what you had,_ she thought to herself with a sardonic smile.

To be fair, it was difficult to say which was worse. Being paraded around for the amusement and pleasure of some salivating warmongers, or being hidden away in the bleak, dark hole that had been aptly nicknamed the "Hell Cells." Superficial cracks and telling scorch marks now littered her chassis; stories of a time when she had yet to learn how to hold her glossa. And yet, the sting of an Energon prod remained far more preferable than bowing at the pedes of one of _them._ The bloodthirsty hounds. The trigger-happy militarists.

The unrepentant _Decepticons._

Sync hadn't had much time to ponder the consequences of defeat during the war. Funny that, given that wars never ended with two winning sides. _Somebody_ always came out on bottom. A victor couldn't emerge without a pile of defeated bodies to raise himself upon. And yet, despite the inevitably of a loser, no one had ever discussed what might become of the Autobot faction should the tides turn against them. No one had ever dared mention the possibility of such a tragedy. What **would** the enemy do, should they get their filthy claws on the universe? What happened to the Autobots when there was no longer a leader - no longer a _cause_ \- to rally them behind?

For those among them who were blessed, it was a question that they never had to learn the answer to.

It would be an understatement to say that the death of Optimus Prime had renewed the Decepticons'... _enthusiasm_ for murder. Their victory on Earth had certainly put the pep back in their step, relentlessly pursuing the remaining Autobots to all corners of the galaxy, like a pack of starved cyberhounds. Death had been quick - in the beginning. Brutal, but swift and subsequently merciful. Nothing compared to the Decepticon's actual ingenuity when it came to inflicting suffering. Only the unlucky few - those who had foolishly managed to evade the initial wave of Decepticon forces - got to live to see just how colourful their imagination actually was.

Oh, yes, mass deactivation had merely been the _appetizer_ for what Megatron had in store for the survivors.

After the initial excitement of the onslaught had subsided, Autobots began to gather a false sense of hope. Perhaps the Decepticons would forget about them. Perhaps they could regroup in the farside of the universe, and live out the remainder of their lives peacefully - far from the reach of the tyrant that now ruled their home planet. It had been a foolish and desperate hope, but the only hope that continued to power their struggle for survival. They needed _something_ to keep them going. Some kind of faith or goal to stop their inevitable collapse into despair.

And then came the unthinkable: an offer of _peace._ Extended by the dictator himself. An open invitation to return to Cybertron, to help their efforts to rebuild their _shared_ home.

To the well-rested, the vigilant, and the hopeful, it was an offer that was blatantly too good to be true. As if Megatron - the vindictive, sinister, asshole that had single-handedly caused the destruction of their planet in the first place - would let anyone off the hook that easily. But to the downtrodden, desperate and scared Autobots?

It was a gamble many of them had been willing to make.

The stories spread like wildfire from there. Newly assembled hunting parties obliterated the first Autobot ships to be drawn in, slaughtering all mechs onboard and dragging any femmes back to their planet, never to be seen or heard from again. Whispers of slavery and torture began to be passed through the transmissions of those who had yet to be captured. Megatron had not been lying about his desire to rebuild their home. Unfortunately, it wasn't the type of rebuilding that they required any more mechs for.

Sync glared into the darkness as memories of her own capture began to resurface, forcibly cutting off that train of thought as she turned her attention back to her dim surroundings. Life in the Hell Cells had given her far too much time to think. Exactly how much time she'd spent cooped up in her own filth was almost impossible to calculate, but she would hazard a guess that it was somewhere along the lines of "too long." Time was ridiculously hard to keep track of in the underground prison, safely nestled within the walls of an _Intergalactic Control and Detainment_ facility that employed every vindictive nutcase whom hadn't had their fill of murdering and torturing their own kind. Combined with a disabled chronometer and no natural source of light, counting the days was nigh impossible. A tactic that was, no doubt, intentionally employed to further dishearten the defeated souls that rotted beneath their establishment.

Not that any prisoner required the discouragement.

The Decepticons had spared no expense to ensure their valued prizes wouldn't stray far. Energon bars separated one cell from the next, their faint buzzing that permeated throughout the chamber a blatant warning that they were live - and they were going to _hurt_ if anyone was stupid enough to attempt breaking through them. Not that throwing yourself at the bars would've been a particularly wise escape plan in the first place, but Sync was well-acquainted with the sorts of crazy things desperation could drive a bot into doing, so she didn't feel inclined to pass judgement.

The constant hum of said bars had been irritating at first. In fact, _everything_ had been irritating at first, but Sync imagined a lot of that had to do with her vehement rage that had consumed her since her capture. Muffled sobs, pacing pede steps, inaudible mumbling. She had arrived in the Hell Cells expecting a mob of like-minded femmes ready to rip the Decepticons a new aft hole for daring to even _think_ that they could use their bodies as they pleased. Instead, she had merely seen a reflection of what she was destined to become - desolate and broken. The only thing that upset the monotonous routine was the defiant screams of new arrivals, cursing and spitting and swearing on their lives that they would make their jailers pay.

Though that never lasted long.

It was the same story on repeat: and a tale she was quickly tiring of. The weight of over fifty disheartened sparks packed into such tight quarters was suffocating, a morose atmosphere that sucked the fight straight out of any Autobot thrown into the aptly nicknamed "Hell Cells." The harsh reality of their situation was a hard concept to come to terms with, when they'd wasted so many stellar cycles trying to avoid this very position - and a depressing truth once it had finally been accepted.

Her optics raked over the scene spread before her - or, at least, the parts that she could decipher from the darkness. Silhouettes of her disheartened comrades were vaguely discernible in the neighbouring cells, their optics dimmed and postures arranged in various slumped stances. Oh yes, their faction must've truly done something atrocious to the universe to deserve this level of karma. To even call the Autobots a faction nowadays was a stretch. Never in a billion years would Sync have imagined that fate would lead her to such a dismal end. Dead, perhaps. Viciously mutilated, potentially. But not this. Not propped up against a wall that was almost filthier than she was. Not living at the mercy of Decepticons.

Not destined to become the pleasure toy of some homicidal maniac.

Her lip components curled at the thought of **them** now serving as the representatives of their population, rolling her stiff joints to relieve the building aggression. Their purpose had _nothing_ to do with rebuilding their fallen planet, of that she was sure of. This was about humiliation. This was about punishment. It was about _Lord_ Megatron flexing his big guns and rubbing it in their faceplates that he had won - and they were going to suffer for ever trying to stand in the way of him and his goals _._

She had to hand it to him - locking them in cells and crushing their spirits was a good way to go about it. Resistance was difficult when one constantly ached and throbbed from the many scorch marks that riddled one's chassis - courtesy of the generous patrolling officers who took far too much delight in putting some "spark" back into them. Sync _despised_ those prods almost as much as she despised the bots on the opposite end of them. Especially when she'd seen femmes dragged into the middle of the hallways and made an example of, for far lesser transgressions than she had ever committed.

To top everything off, it was also no coincidence that their small rations barely fought off the constant warning messages about fuel levels. If the guards arriving like clockwork didn't do the trick, the Autobots' Energon levels were intentionally kept at dangerously low levels to make physical resistant near impossible. Though, she had certainly done herself no favours in that retrospect. Judging by the amount of Energon cubes that she'd left untouched, it had at least been a deca-cycle since she'd last refuelled. Her latest fuel strike was certainly testing the limits of her willpower.

 _All for a good cause,_ she reassured herself.

It was abundantly clear that the owner of the Hell Cells went to great extents to ensure that nobody even thought about putting up a fight. The hopelessness of their situation was illustrated in every slumped form, every pair of downcast optics. Their helplessness was almost tangible and it made her tanks roil.

Oh yes, she would be interested to see how Bee would have found the humour in this.

Her servos clenched into fists, dormant anger and humiliation bubbling back to the surface of her consciousness. Life in the Hell Cells was the inevitable conclusion for any Autobot femme, she wouldn't deny that. There was no shame in winding up there. They could run, and hide, and fight all they liked, but they lacked the appropriate resources to elude the Decepticon forces. Nothing but sheer dumb luck would help even the most elusive of bots to slip past their forces - and luck was something they had not had in abundance the past vorn.

There was a time where she'd believed that she might be able to evade the hunting parties, given the right amount of caution, and could escape far enough into the universe that she would merely be forgotten about. Abandon her squadron. Disappear into the vastness of space. Such a pleasant fantasy at the time, but one that she'd never had the steel to act out. Even after various close-calls, she'd always been persuaded to remain, whether by her commander or her comrades. They had been good mechs. Honest mechs. And they might have survived if it weren't for her own stupid blunder.

The femme offlined her optics, trying to banish the dark images that accompanied such memories. She couldn't have saved her team even if she'd wanted to. It was a hard truth, but a truth all the same. Or at least one that she told herself to silence her conscience. Decepticon hunting efforts had increased tenfold, raising a fully-fledged slave-trading business that spread to even the deepest reaches of space - and just so happened to specialise exclusively in Autobot femmes. Her commander had had them constantly on the move. Planet to planet, star to star, milky way to milky way. The mechs fleeing their demise and Sync fleeing her capture. Nobody ever said it, but she knew. She knew her presence put them at unimaginable risk - yet she could never bring herself to leave them, either.

...Oh for Primus' sake, happy thoughts were **not** working today _._

She tapped her digits against the floor in an unsteady rhythm, nervous energy beginning to get the best of her. A distinctive whine filled the cells, a familiar indicator that the rusted doors were finally prying themselves open. For the briefest, most fragile of moments the entire brig was flooded with light, eliciting soft hisses of protest from those who were blinded by its glare. An approaching guard, undoubtedly.

Metal footsteps clicked over the grime-slicked floor, adopting a rhythmic yet undisciplined tempo that betrayed their lack of military background. The mech in question was the same size as her, though his build consisted of rippling, compacted cables that suggested a hard punch was going to do more than dent a bit of metal.

 _Perfect._

She watched him draw closer, steeling the last scraps of her resolve. Yes, she would attest to the fact that the Decepticons had done everything within their power to squash the rebellious spirits of the femmes that landed themselves in the Hell Cells. But the funny thing about leaving a bot with no options, was that conventional motivations such as self-preservation didn't matter so much anymore. When you backed a cougaraider into a corner, it was going to lash out. And when you locked an Autobot in chains and ascertained they would have nothing to lose from at least _trying_ , they would fight to their last moment to escape.

Something her fellow femmes seemed to have forgotten.

Sync's optics burned into the side of his helm as the mech drew closer, until his crimson optics finally met her defiant glare. Her reputation as a troublemaker surely proceeded her (a reputation she _gladly_ owned), and his pedesteps gradually slowed at the suggestion of trouble.

Sync was never one to disappoint.

It was not until he reached an eventual stop outside her cell that she finally dropped her gaze: pointedly falling to the Energon cube positioned near the bars of her cell, untouched since its delivery over a stellar cycle ago. His optics inevitably followed, narrowing in annoyance to see that she had skipped _another_ opportunity to refuel. It had been the fourth time in a quartex that she had refused to touch the low-grade scrap they were serving up. Long enough that she suspected the guards had been warned about the dangers of her ongoing fuel strike.

"Drink."

Oh, a _command._ That was obviously going to work. Sync met his order with stony silence and not so much as a twitch of a digit. She hadn't starved herself for the better half of a quartex to crack now.

"Are your audios malfunctioning, Autoscum?" _Original._ "I said **drink."**

Her audio receptors were functioning, alright. Any ability to process common sense, however? Well, that might have been a little impaired. Her vocaliser remained inactive, mouth components stubbornly pressed together as she regarded him with dripping contempt. Patience wearing thin, the guard rapped the prod against the Energon bars - finally rousing the attention of surrounding femmes, who glanced worriedly in her direction. Sync could feel their optics practically pleading with her to obey. Nobody wanted to witness her punishment anymore than she wanted to experience it.

 _"Drink,"_ he snarled, _"before I force it down your intake."_

Her optics fell to the sparking prod clutched tightly in his hands, her circuitry all too familiar with the damage it could (and would) inflict. This time she obediently shuffled towards the cube, movements slow and sluggish, but a form of compliance nonetheless. Her spark whirred wildly in her chamber as her gaze remained fixed on the infernal contraption in his hand. Far too many memories were associated with that thing. She'd learned to fear those sparks within a few days of arrival- and for a very good reason.

Primus, she was really going to hate her for this.

She forced herself to look away from the prod as she finally entered reaching-distance of the cube, instead focusing on the satisfied faceplate of the Decepticon. Oh, didn't he just look so damn pleased with himself. Would he brag to his friends that he'd made stubborn D-27 finally consume her ration of Energon? Was he planning to pointlessly torture her regardless, just to drive the message home?

She'd never discover the answer. Instead of focusing on the instrument in his hand she centred on the irritation building in her chestplate, drawing upon her underlying disdain and pure _hatred_ for his faction to keep that anger firmly lit. She made sure to hold his optics as she stretched out one pede, slowly and purposefully spilling the contents of the cube all over the floor.

And just to add insult to injury, she summoned a smirk.

The reaction was almost instantaneous. The door to her cage was ripped open with a snarl, the mech splashing through the rapidly-growing pool of Energon, prod already sparking. She dived towards the entrance in what appeared to be an attempt to evade him, narrowly avoiding the sticky substance as he yanked her backwards by the collar and forced her to the floor. There was no point trying to suppress the screams that ripped free of her vocaliser. That was a pointless waste of energy. She allowed her cries to reverberate throughout the cells, her systems sparking in protest as the prod was jabbed into parts and joints, overloading sensitive circuity and locking up her limbs. The sheer pain left no room to rethink the potential foolishness of her decision.

Eventually the guard relented, but only to twirl the prod in his grasp as he searched for another place to target. Sync continued to writhe on the floor as the last of the current left her body, vocaliser sputtering white noise and vision beginning to glitch. If she'd forgotten why she hated the prod so much - why even her rebellious glossa had been silenced at the mere suggestion of it - she definitely remembered now. Every after-convulsion felt like a betrayal of her body, a self-inflicted punishment for her processor's stupid pride and the situations it dragged her into.

Primus, this had better be worth it.

The spilled Energon had spread to their location, gathering in a pool around his pedes and slicking her lower half. With a defeated groan she rolled over onto her side, mentally reaching out for that burning animosity to give courage back to her spark and strength back to her limbs. The prod was _nothing,_ she tried to tell herself. Nothing in comparison to what _could be_ if she held on. She'd suffered this much. She had come this far. The starvation, the beatings, the degradation. None of it was going to matter anymore. She was **not** going to let life turn her ordeal into another one of its grand jokes.

The mech was still eyeing her up, searching for gaps in her plating that would really pack a punch. The sadistic glee in his optics sickened her, almost as much as his ugly faceplate. She swallowed thickly as she planted a hand in the puddle of Energon, bracing herself against the floor.

This was going to hurt, she knew. But not for her.

She waited for the telltale grunt he always released before attacking, before rolling clear of the attack in an unsightly flurry of limbs. The prod was rammed into the Energon puddle that had collected beneath him, Sync just managing to evade getting caught in the crossfire as the current conducted through the substance and hit him twice as hard. A pained roar, followed by a sharp _thud,_ alerted her to the fact that he had fallen. Unfortunately, there was no time to indulge in her victory. Gloating would have to come later.

Recovering quickly she hoisted herself onto her pedes, clumsily stepping around his twitching form and snatching up the prod that had fallen to the floor. She practically fell out of the cell in her haste to be clear of the bars - another roar alerting her to the fact that he was beginning to catch up with what was taking place. She slammed the door shut, hearing the satisfying "click" of the lock, and stumbled backwards just in time to evade his grasping hands, fans whirring maniacally at the physical exertion that had been demanded of her Energon-deprived systems. Despite her blatant exhaustion, she still managed a grin.

Holy slag. She had actually done it.

"You little glitch! Get back here!"

Sync chortled at such a suggestion, shaking her head at the mech in pure _disappointment_. Honestly, the naivety of these creatures.

She stabbed the prod between the bars, indulging in his echoing cries of pain for the most precious of nanokliks. Oh, it felt **good** to be on the opposite end again. That anger - that pure _lust_ for vengeance - seeped through her circuits and gave new life to her fast-wearing systems. She was actually _standing_ on the other side of the cell again. She actually held some semblance of **power.** Now she just had to make sure she kept a hold of it.

The guard hadn't even hit the ground before she was sprinting down the gloomy passageway, clearing past the dead-eyed shells and motionless husks that were struggling to comprehend the reality of what they had just witnessed. She didn't have time to think about them. Freeing each individual Autobot would take too much time - time that would end up bringing in the next patrol, and she doubted half of them would even attempt to defend themselves against the guards. No, if they wanted out, they'd have to find that motivation within themselves. Sync could not waste her opportunity. There were no Autobots anymore.

There were no loyalties.

She slammed the control panel with more force than required, impatiently waiting for the creaky exit doors to pry themselves apart again. They had not even reached halfway before she running towards the elevator, guided by the memory of her many trips to the Med. Bay. She threw the doors open and hit the highest floor available on the interface. She had a faint memory of the entrance being somewhere near the upper levels, though she had no hope of recalling its specific location before the guards were onto her. It was only a matter of kliks before the fuming 'Con swallowed his pride and alerted someone of the situation.

The elevator doors barely had a chance to open before she had burst out of them, jamming the prod into the controls to render the machinery useless. That would at least buy her a few more nanokliks, and she took the opportunity to survey her new surroundings. This was the part she _didn't_ know quite so well.

And by that, she meant "no experience whatsoever."

A quick glance around failed to yield much information - the walls were an offset white, almost blinding when combined with the lighting that illuminated every square inch of the long corridor she was standing in. The hallway extended in both directions, and it was already apparent that it led to many other twists and turns. Frag it. She'd really overestimated her ability to navigate a place she'd never actually explored.

There wasn't time to give it much more thought, however, or lament her lack of foresight. The sudden activation of alarms had her on the move again, picking a random direction and sprinting as fast as she could without tripping over her own pedes. Her helm was on a constant swivel, desperately searching for any indication of an exit as yells reverberated throughout the halls. Far too disoriented to deduce where they were coming from, she just ran. Ran and prayed to Primus that a miracle blessed her sometime soon.

Left. Right. Left. Oops, other left. Forwards. A group of figures materialised at the end of the corridor, and she took another hard turn to evade them. She didn't get far before she reached a pair of locked doors, a string of curses leaving her vocaliser. It was a dead-end. Of _course_ it was a dead-end. Without a second thought for sensibilities, she kicked the obtrusive structure, more profanities being lashed out by her glossa.

The door opened.

The room beyond was vast yet dimly-lit, comprised of various platforms that contained stacks upon stacks of Energon. Sync stared, dumbfounded (and somewhat unamused), but didn't think twice about entering when she heard sounds of pursuit. The dived inside the containment unit, waiting for the doors to close with an echoing _clang_ before frying the control panel with the prod again. At the very least, it would slow them down. And she needed as much time as fate could muster to consider her options.

She turned away from the doors to survey the chamber she had wound up in, her tanks giving an ungodly grumble at the amount of refined Energon just _waiting_ to be consumed. Her fans were already working overtime, vents sounding especially noisy in the empty room as they worked hard to cool down her heating systems. In fact, it came as no surprise that her legs chose that moment to finally give out beneath her. Her weight crashed down onto one knee, body having to be propped up by an additional supporting hand. Skipping Energon definitely hadn't come free of repercussions. Exhausted as she was, she almost completely missed the additional presence in the room.

Almost.

Her optics fell to the corner closest to the control panel, easily identifying the small silhouette that had fluttered across the corner of her gaze when she'd first entered. Despite her blatantly weakened position she raised the prod in its direction - an obvious threat to whatever (or whoever) had let her through the doors.

"Come here."

Laced with static, the demand didn't sound half as intimidating as she'd have liked - and apparently not nearly intimidating enough to spur the little cretin into action. The figure remained perfectly still, asides from the smallest of head tilts as it regarded her with its large, red optics. With a frustrated growl she forced her legs to pick herself off the floor, wobbling towards the stubbornly motionless form with as much dignity as she could muster. It did not flinch from her outreached hand. Rather, it offered no resistance as she grabbed hold of its shoulder and harshly yanked it into the light, revealing a faceplate that was... not quite what she had anticipated.

She quickly withdrew her hand as if she had been stung, unable to disguise her shock. A bot that could not have been any older than a youngling gazed back up at her, its armour similar to the reflective, unmarred silver that often identified the youth of a newborn. Guilt suddenly punched her in the chestplate as she realised she was brandishing an _Energon prod_ at a creature so young, and hastily lowered it. What in the name of Primus was a mere child doing in a place like this? She had her suspicions, certainly, but quickly decided that wasn't a question she wanted to ponder too hard.

"What are you doing here?"

The small mech blinked at her innocently, then raised an undersized digit towards the panel beside the door. Not exactly what she'd asked, but the meaning was clear enough. He'd been saving her... at least, that's what he claimed. As much as she hated to admit it, too many stellar cycles spent avoiding Decepticons had made her suspicious of most bots she met. Though not ungrateful for the help, her spark was being pulled in two directions: a very convincing voice that warned her to be on alert, whilst another screamed profanities at her for even considering offlining a youngling. He had, afterall, just saved her. She at least owed him the benefit of the doubt.

A resounding _boom_ shook the entire chamber, effectively distracting Sync's attention from the young bot. Unintelligible shouting could be heard from the other side of the door, a clear indication that the Decepticons had arrived and had apparently begun firing on their latest obstacle.

She cursed under her breath, brandishing the Energon prod at the mech threateningly. As much as it made her feel like an asshole, she couldn't take any chances. The child merely stared at her, seemingly unpertubed by the explosions occurring outside the door.

"Is there another way out of here?"

The small bot nodded quickly, not even waiting for her position as it began climbing up the platforms towards a metallic pillar that lay at the center of the room. She followed in close pursuit, risking two steps at a time and vaguely wondering how something so little moved so fragging fast. Another _boom_ almost caused her to lose her balance, but she managed to recover and glance up just in time to see hatchling standing beside another control panel attached to the pillar. What was it d-?

There was no time for an objection to even begin forming in her vocaliser. Its tiny hand activated the device, filling the room with an awful groan of metal. The obscene sound drowned out the commotion in the hallway, the pillar splitting into two sheets that slowly peeled away from the structure. A transparent cylinder lay within, complete with a holographic display and circular floor that he didn't hesitate to step onto. It looked expectantly at Sync as another round was unleashed on the doors - clearly waiting for her to enter alongside.

A delivery pod. She should've known.

Indecision rooted her to the ground as she eyed up the structure, every fibre in her being warning her that the situation was odd and she shouldn't follow through with it. A Decepticon youngling just happened to show up in the middle of nowhere and provide a convenient way out of her current conundrum? Maybe she was hallucinating. Maybe the lack of Energon had finally gotten to her processor, and she was actually sitting back in her cell imagining this entire bizzare scenario. Or maybe it was all real - and she should stop questioning the logic behind Decepticons' structural choices and get her aft into gear. Her hesitation could truly cost her.

She glanced back at the doors, wondering what could possibly be worse than facing the guards and being forced back into her cell. She was never going to get an opportunity like this again. Freedom was at the tip of her digits, if only she knew how to lunge forwards and grab it. To face the certain evil that was trying to break in, or follow the uncertain evil that had assisted her thus far? The 'Con wasn't much bigger than a standard hatchling. Even if it tried to turn on her, she knew there'd be no question of who had the upper hand; even in her current state.

Another shot actually managed to blast a hole through the door, and it was enough for her to make up her mind. She may not have been spoiled for options - but she'd take any chance she could if it meant escaping the Hell Cells. Without a second thought she slipped into the elevator, the platform quickly beginning to ascend at the little bot's direction. Good progress, at least. If the Hell Cells were underground, then the higher floors were where the exit had to be. Worse comes to worst, she could always just throw herself out of a window. Nothing would stop her from finding a way out.

 _Especially_ not something that was barely taller than her knee.

"Who are you?" Sync demanded, cutting off her train of thought and glaring down at the little creature.

If the miniature Decepticon sensed her hostility, he made no indication of it. Her demands were met with an innocent blink, tilting its ridiculously undersized helm in a motion that would've _almost_ been cute if it weren't for the ugly red optics.

Great. Had the Decepticons ripped out its vocaliser, too, as some kind of cruel joke?

"Look," she snarled, brandishing the prod at it menacingly. "I didn't come all this way just to get screwed over by some toy-sized robot. So either you're here to help me, or we're going to find out how many volts that little body can take before you pop. Got it, Mini-Con?"

Most bots would've at least flinched at such an instrument being thrust into their faceplates. If not out of fear, then simply out of respect for the damage it could do. It didn't take much experience to know that Energon prods were downright nasty. In fact, in many cases, Transformers did not even _need_ to experience its bite first-hand to know that it was not a toy to be taken lightly.

And yet, despite the entire spectrum of suitable emotions laying at the youngling's fingertips, he gazed up at her with brazen amusement. Sync's optics narrowed at the strange little creature, digits tightening around the weapon as she humoured the temptation to prove that her threat was not idle. Fortunately for him, a nod of comprehension was eventually given, which was enough to temporarily quell her anger.

"Good." She lowered the prod, yet her stance remained stiff.

The elevator shuddered to a stop, the doors creaking open to reveal their destination. Another hallway spread out before her, brightly lit like the rest of the institute and void of any windows. The sound of sirens was distant, now: almost inaudible, muffled many floors below them. Sync gripped the edge of the pod's doors to assist with stepping out, trying not to lean too much of her weight against it and betray the extent of her vulnerability. Maybe it was the optics. Maybe it was the convenience of his timing. But she didn't trust the little robot at all.

The elevator disappeared back into the floor, giving her an unobstructed view of their surroundings. They weren't in a hallway at all, she realised, but rather a star-shaped intersection that extended with five paths in each direction. Great. More obscure decisions. She did so _love_ not knowing where the frag she was.

The Autobot jumped as she felt a small hand squeezing her digits, meeting the gaze of the mini-bot as it stared up at her earnestly and gave another firm squeeze - a gesture that was meant to be reassuring, she finally registered. _Ugh._ Figuring she didn't have much choice in the matter anyway, she allowed herself to be led further onto the platform, stopping once they'd reached the centre and looking skywards.

Thick screens hung above each path, angled downwards to be better-viewed by those on the ground. Some screens were relatively empty: nothing but lonely corridors, marked by the occasional passing figure. Others were a little more active: guards milling about, or smaller, easily-identified medics going about their duties. It didn't take her long to discern that the screens were live feeds of the areas that surrounded each pathway - an easy way for her to monitor what she was about to walk into and where to go. To know when trouble was coming... or plan a route to escape.

The surprised look she shot Mini-Con - her incredulity that it was actually being helpful - was probably a lot more offensive than she intended it to be.

The youngling's amusement only seemed to grow, however, beckoning her to follow down one of the less-busy paths. Sync hesitated, glancing at the screen above the selected track - relatively empty, asides from one guard standing outside a lonely door. One fully energised and _armed_ guard, that was. There was no way she felt confident that she could take him on her own; not without causing a massive commotion and drawing unwanted attention.

"I can't take him," she admitted bitterly, though it pained her to confess such things to a... suspiciously helpful Decepticon. "There has to be another way."

The mini-bot's optics narrowed, gesturing to the other monitors in a manner that wordlessly asked, _do_ _ **you**_ _see another way?_ They were definitely busier than the one that the little bot had chosen - that much was obvious. And unlike the patrols in the Hell Cells, their movements were completely random. Normal (bloodthirsty, abhorrent, obnoxious...) Transformers going about their various duties, following patterns that weren't fixed or synchronised. There would be no way to sneak past. No way to predict when someone was going to come around the corner.

The youngling's hallway, on the other hand, was almost completely devoid of wandering life.

The bot gestured to her again: urgently now. She glanced at the monitor to her left to see guards heading in their direction, and knew her time to make a decision had definitely expired. As much as she wanted to leave the creepy look-a-like behind and be done with it, she knew she needed his help. And not just with finding a way out of this place.

With a frustrated sigh she relented, holding the prod close to her chassis as she quickly followed its lead - the weapon now more of a source of comfort than protection. She'd only managed a rough mental sketch of the layout they were heading down, yet her companion traversed down the twisting halls with ease. _Unnerving_ ease. Her suspicious optics never left the bot as they forged onwards, watching closely for any sign of impending fuckery.

As the pair drew closer to the occupied corridor, their steps became increasingly lighter and tentative, doing their best to conceal their approach. A million scenarios were running through her processor, trying to deduce the best strategy for fighting her way around such an advantaged opponent. There was no choice except a confrontation. But maybe if she managed to sneak up on him, find a way to immobilise and disarm him using the Energon prod... though the 'sneaking up' part was going to be troublesome in such a narrow space.

The knot that had formed in Sync's chestplate tightened as the youngling paused at a corner, red optics glancing at her expectantly.

"What is it?"

No response. What a shocking surprise.

She moved past him and peered around the edge, instantly recognising the odd shape of the guarded door. And yet the corridor was... empty?

The _click_ of a loaded gun seemed to reverberate throughout the hallway. Sync's spark fell into her fuel tanks as she felt something cold press against the side of her helm, instantly recognising her crucial mistake of not watching her _own_ back. Frag. So much for sneaking up on him.

Before she could reassess any strategies, the halls were filled with thunderous shouts and the _clank_ of heavy pedesteps. Soldiers took mere nanokliks to pile into the available space, forming a tight circle around the duo with their weapons trained exclusively on Sync. An infuriated growl was released from her throat as a new realisation occurred to her: the fragging _cameras._ It was such a stupid oversight on her behalf - one she wouldn't have made if she hadn't been so desperate to escape.

That desperation hadn't quite left her yet. She twirled the prod in her hands with a snarl, more than prepared to fight despite her condition, completely ignoring the increased pressure of the barrel against her head. It wasn't as if she could get herself into any deeper slag - and she'd be damned if she was ready to give up the fight just yet. She hadn't had a chance to make any reckless decisions, however, before she felt the weapon wrenched from her grasp with surprising ferocity.

Mini-Con met her confused frown with a cold grin, its optics narrowed in contemptuous amusement. Suddenly, he didn't look quite as young as she'd originally assumed. Her Energon (or, at least, what was left of it) ran cold in her circuits as she was treated to a front row view of its armour beginning to shift and unfold from itself, revealing a _very_ different identity underneath. Shimmering, glass-like feathers emerged in the form of two large wings, whilst the rest of the chassis twisted and bent away. The Energon prod was transferred from its small servos into a pair of vicious talons, and a long neck presented a bird-like helm that she swore to be smirking.

"Get on your knees," ordered one of the taller mechs, unphased by the transformation.

No. No, no, no, **no!** The metallic black and silver bird took to the skies, carrying her last means of defence well out of reach. Sync's fists clenched, the fury hitting her like a tidal wave as the reality of what was happening settled in. It was a trick. _A trap._ Anger welcomed a surge of energy back into her limbs, surveying the surrounding bots with a vicious glare. She had fought so hard. She had struggled more than they could _imagine._ They were **not** going to steal this from her!

" _On your knees!"_

Sync obeyed no such order.

The guard closest to her made the mistake of shifting his stance, removing the weapon he'd pressed against her helm to grab her shoulder struts and force her onto her knees. Launching herself at the opportunity she spun around to confront his ugly visage, servo closing around the barrel of his gun and shoving it towards the ceiling. His natural instinct to fire rained a cascade of sparks onto them as his commander screamed a warning not to kill her - though Sync doubted he would be listening in the heat of battle. The pair wrestled for control, before Sync suddenly released and aimed a hard punch towards his helm.

It wasn't enough to seriously harm him. That much she had predicted. It was, however, successfully off-balancing him for a precious few nanokliks. She lunged forwards to grab the weapon from his slackened hold, but a hard kick to her abdomen sent her crashing to the floor instead. His teammates had decided to step in.

There was no chance to recover after that. Hands quickly grabbed onto her, yanking her onto her front and digging a knee into her back to pin her there. She continued to randomly hit, kick, and bite any appendage that was stupid enough to get within range, but it wasn't enough to fend off her attackers. Her faceplate was firmly pressed into the ground and hands caught behind her back, her thrashing becoming more deranged as the familiar sight of stasis cuffs flashed in her peripheral vision. _Like_ _ **Pit-!**_

The device clamped around her wrists, immediately dampening her sensors and inhibiting the registration of any commands sent from her processor. Her chassis inevitably sagged against the floor, though her mind remained acutely and _painfully_ aware of the going-ons around her. She'd blown her chance. She'd _failed._ And she had been so close...

Rough servos hauled her into a standing position, the world spinning sharply with the movement before coming back into focus again. Was she going directly back to the Hell Cells? Or did they have something special planned out for her - a way to make an example of her to the rest of her kind? She was disappointed to find that her spark half hoped for the latter. Deactivation might just be a far kinder ending to her story than any other she could imagine for herself.

Two mechs balanced her weight between them, their grips unnecessarily tight and intentionally uncomfortable around her arms. Not that it would matter soon. Repetitive warning signs about her rapidly decreasing Energon levels became harder to ignore as she lay limp between them, her vision beginning to glitch and blur the forms that surrounded her. It was evident that she wasn't going to last in consciousness much longer.

Just before her systems entered emergency shut-down, however, her optics caught the familiar orange-red of the avian form that hovered above. Even with her failing networks its amusement could not have been more blatant - evidenced with a smug _wink_ it sent in her direction before departing with her prod. One last surge of hatred coursed through her circuity, wanting _nothing_ more than to **tear** the insolent creature into pieces, before her body finally gave up; cutting off her sensory feeds and silencing her processor.

Life had a twisted sense of humour, indeed.

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 **Phew, first chapter done and dusted. Let me know what you guys think! x**


	2. Reprogramming

**A/N: Thank you so much to everyone's who favourited and alerted (and the one wee sweetie who reviewed)!** **Sorry for the delay with the updates, it's been a really long time since I've written much of anything and it takes a lot of editing before a piece feels like it's ready. I hope you all enjoy the second chapter!**

 **EDIT: Yep, this got completely overhauled. I'm never satisfied, apparently.**

* * *

 _"But sometimes, in tight corners, when your back is against the wall and the world is against you, you have to fight back in unexpected ways."_  
― Caroline B. Cooney

Bright lights and unresponsive arms were never promising signs.

Sync squinted her optics against the fluorescent glare, venting a low huff of annoyance as she angled her helm away as best as she could. The heavy impediment of her movements and the overpowering stench of bleach were ample clues for her to identify her surroundings. She'd had enough trips to the Hell Cells' med. bay that she didn't need her vision to deduce that she had been restrained on one of their berths.

A testing tug on the Energon bands around her wrists confirmed that she wasn't going to be going anywhere in a hurry, delivering a small warning shock when she applied too much pressure. The additional bands around her torso and legs tightly constricted even the slightest of movements, not leaving her much wiggle-room underneath. Somebody really wanted her to stick around, apparently. Almost like they thought she was some escape artist or would cause some kind of trouble. What on Cybertron would give them that impression, she thought to herself sardonically.

The back of her head hit the berth with a defeated thud, chewing on her bottom lip component as she considered her limited options. Her escape had evidently failed. Best case scenario had been that she would be terminated in the process, but she must've pissed someone off enough that they wanted her alive and ready to face the consequences. An unfortunate outcome, but one that she had mentally prepared for. Physical pain - and even permanent deactivation - was nothing compared to the nightmare waiting beyond the walls of the detainment centre. Risking her wellbeing for freedom was worth the possibility of escaping her fate as a glorified pleasurebot.

She cursed under her breath as a quick systems check revealed her fuel levels had been restored to halfway - at least twice the amount that was normally distributed to the Autobot captives. Someone had specifically wanted her online. More than that, someone had wanted her online and _resilient_ to whatever fun they had in store for her. She had survived the ordeal of a failed escape. She hadn't been terminated for her insolence (as of yet). Which meant there was only one outcome left.

There was about to be Pit to pay.

And if there was punishment to be dealt out, that could only mean one Decepticon that savoured beating some _gratitude_ into the Autobots.

The doors to the med. bay opened with an ominous _hiss,_ additional light spewing in from the hallway and backlighting the hulking silhouette of Megatron's most fervent zealot. Tremors quaked the room with every sluggish **thud** of the Decepticon's pedesteps. Drawing further into the harsh light of the med. bay illuminated the scowl of displeasure on the bot's squashed faceplates that - after careful examination - one would questionably identify as feminine. Dark pink highlights on an otherwise dull colour-scheme seemed to be intentionally placed to confirm such a conclusion on an otherwise dubious chassis.

Oh, yes. There was no mistaking the unique physique of the oversized she-devil.

Strika had come to play.

 _"Sync."_ She spat the designation at the Autobot, lower lip component curling in contempt. "I should have known."

In the context of the Hell Cells, being memorable was not a good thing. Anonymity was what kept femmes safely tucked away in their cells. Anonymity meant that the big boss hadn't overindulged in her _rehabilitation_ tactics and spent a little too much time picking your circuitry apart. Old wounds were already tingling as the Decepticon commander drew uncomfortably closer to the berth.

Sync's hands curled into fists as the she-beast loomed over her threateningly, superciliously eyeing the filthy state of her captive's chassis - and giving Sync an unwanted close-up look at the monstrosity of a bot. It was a wonder that such a broad frame managed to pass through the doorway without incident. Strika's arms alone were twice as thick as Sync's waists, with heavy blasters mounted on top of her shoulders and hands that could easily crush the helm of an average mech. Sync - not the biggest of bots anyways - felt particularly dwarfed given her restrained position on the berth.

"I would ask what you were thinking, but that would be expecting too much of you."

Being called stupid by Strika, of all Decepticons. How satirical.

Sync's optics narrowed, fronting an appearance of contempt to disguise how intimidating the lumbering beast really was. Scorn was much easier to summon - and much more sincere - than confidence. Particularly where slave traders such as the likes of Strika were concerned. A special place in the Pit was reserved for femmes like Strika. The perverted bitches who knowingly threw Autobots into the berths of wolves, in the hopes that their fellow Decepticons wouldn't ask the same of them. Standing by and leaving the Autobots to their fate was one thing. Actively participating in their subjugation was a different ball game entirely.

A sudden backhand stunned Sync out of her thoughts, processor exploding into a series of high-pitched ringing noises.

"Don't give me that look, bit-brain."

Sync suppressed a growl of irritation, refusing to reestablish optic-contact out of knowledge of her own inability to control her facial expressions. Instead her heated glare remained directed at the opposite wall; keeping an eye on Strika in the corner of her visual field as she withdrew something long and metallic from her subspace.

"Evidently you have yet to appreciate the hospitality/forgiveness/redemption the Decepticons have generously bestowed upon/granted your disgraced kind."

A small click followed by an incessant buzzing told Sync everything she didn't want to know: Energon prod.

Her optics widened even as her optic ridges furrowed - caught somewhere between panicked and confused. This wasn't like Strika. The Decepticon was barbaric and somewhat simplistic, yes, but her torture methods were not. All the energy she saved by being a blind follower had somehow been rerouted into a knack for inflicting pain. It wasn't like her to bring out the toys already. Let alone one as minimalistic as an Energon prod.

Despite her stale choice in torture devices, Strika looked rather pleased with herself. A hand running over the fragmented plating of Sync's abdominal armour was an unfortunate reminder of her less-than-ideal design; her spark sinking into her fuel tanks as the reality of her situation fully dawned on her. The Decepticon could choose any device on the planet and make the experience miserable for her. Strika didn't need fancy equipment. Not when Sync's own design practically _begged_ for punishment.

In the interest of agility and fluidity, Sync was not a bot with particularly heavy armouring. She had planned her chassis for battle - not for torture and servitude. While her chestplate and calves were solidly encased in metal, various parts of her armour tapered away into piece-like chunks that left sensitive circuitry exposed. Areas such as her abdomen - which Strika was now stroking like some transfixed cyber-kitty - was by far the biggest offender.

Two pairs of neon strip lights marked the most sensitive of areas, extending from the sides of her chestplate and down to her crotch piece in a jagged design. The cyan was striking against her predominantly silver colouring, yet also inevitably served as an obvious target for her assailants. It had been a calculated trade-off. Decepticons couldn't kill what they couldn't catch, after all. Though only marginally faster than the average bot, her evasive and duplicitous fighting style had kept her out of the enemies' reach.

...Well, during the war, at least.

Nowadays it wasn't the threat of a bullet or sword that threatened Sync's legions of soft spots. Her denta preemptively sunk into her glossa as she watched the sparking end of the Energon prod - determined not to scream on the first attempt. Pain was temporary. She had tried. She could not be mad with herself for trying. She would have regretted it more if she hadn't. The worst they could do was imagine some horrendous punishment to discourage her from trying it again. That she could live with. Living with the knowledge that she'd just accepted her fate and hadn't even tried to get out?

That would've been a regret she carried forever.

"Brats like you will never learn." The cold amusement had melted away from Strika's faceplate, giving Sync her first look at the impassioned fury burning within her optics. "We Decepticons repaired the destruction your kind wrought upon our planet. We welcomed you back to our home. We saved you from yourselves." Well, that was fairly debatable. "And _this_ is the thanks we get."

 _Thanks-?!  
_

Sync didn't have a chance to finish the thought.

A hard thrust stabbed the prongs of the prod into her abdominal plating, puncturing through the flimsy armour and igniting the circuitry with white-hot heat. Her chassis violently convulsed against the restraints - a wild and involuntary thrashing that threatened to yank her own joints from her sockets. Through the pain and the agony, Sync's thoughts remained firmly locked on one thing:

 **Don't scream.**

Though she almost bit off her own glossa in the process, she managed to keep to her promise. Her stalled vents sprang to life the moment Strika removed the prod, desperately sucking in air to cool her overheating circuitry. A sharp stinging and the bitter tang of Energon alerted her to the fact that her denta had pierced the soft protoflesh of her glossa in thanks of her efforts. A small inconvenience, really, in comparison to the fireworks she had just endured.

And far more satisfying to the ego.

"You think you've made a fool of me, don't you?"

A braver bot would have openly scoffed at the absurdity of such a question. As it happened, Sync managed only a half-roll of her optics. How unthinkable was it that she would want to escape for the sake of, well, _escape?_ That she wasn't motivated by a desire to humiliate Strika (though, perhaps, that was a happy consequence of her actions), but rather a simple desire to be free. Being a Decepticon pleasuretoy had never exactly been a life ambition of hers.

Strika sneered down at her, roughly wiping her digit through the small trail of Energon that leaked from her fresh puncture wound, adding to the smear of other unknown substances that caked her armour. Sync offered only the slightest of winces in protest - her lacklustre response more due to exhaustion than anything else.

"Do you think you've won just because **he** was there to witness?"

 _He?_ Which "he" was she talking about? The entire fragging establishment was crawling with "he's." The insanity of her questions paired with the tense situation was beginning to grate on Sync's common sense, and she found the sarcastic response slipping out of her vocoder before she had the chance to rethink.

"Perhaps you'd like to be more specific."

"Perhaps not."

The Energon prod was directed at her inner thighs this time, the movement so sudden that Sync had a fraction of a nanoklik to bite her split glossa again. Sync's crotch piece was constructed from multiple overlapping parts, connecting at the junction between her legs with an uneven, cyan-coloured diamond shape. The armour continued fragmenting down her thighs to leave a fair amount of her inner circuitry on offer, highlighted by additional strip lights that cut across the exposed parts of her protoform and disappeared again beneath the leg armour that covered her calves.

In other words: another soft target.

Fireworks exploded anew beneath Sync's plating, though this time her exhausted systems could produce only a weak struggle instead of frenzied thrashing. The world was a blur of pain and _buzzing,_ scattering Sync's thoughts into little more than cries of pain and unvoiced pleas for the agony to end. There was no separation between the pain of her denta sinking into her glossa and the prod that was setting her circuitry alight - just one, blended, agonising experience.

The assault on her thighs did not last nearly as long, however. Or perhaps she had merely grown accustomed to the suffering. She collapsed against the berth with a muted noise of hurt, observing the frown that was pulling at Strika's optic ridges. Sync cursed the involuntary flinch she gave as her helm was roughly grabbed by the Decepticon femme, but Strika paid it no heed, wiping something away from her lip components and inspecting the blue substance through narrowed optics.

Energon.

Strika roughly squeezed either side of Sync's cheek plating, forcibly parting her jaw and revealing the abuse she had inflicted upon her own glossa. Copious amounts of fluid spilled freely at the opening of her oral cavity, staining Sync's helm in tiny streaks. Strika hissed lowly in displeasure, and though she was in no state to offer much resistance, Sync felt a flicker of smugness. Appreciating the small victories was essential to her strange new life. And the look on Strika's faceplate was particularly gratifying.

"For all the trouble you've caused me, the least you could do is scream."

A brutal _crack_ signaled the snapping of Sync's digit - a simple wrench from Strika's brutish hands almost pulling the damn thing out by its wires. Sync inhaled sharply at the surge of pain, but it wasn't enough to prompt noise out of her. It wasn't supposed to be. The act of violence had merely been out of frustration than an actual attempt to break her. In fact, Strika appeared uncharacteristically _thoughtful,_ as opposed to sadistic. Normally any act of defiance was met with slow and brutal punishment. Not this... carelessness.

Something was ticking away behind those dim optics. It wasn't often that Strika put her processor to use, after all, and Sync could see her rusty gears straining under the effort of a suddenly active processor. Something wasn't right. Nothing had been right since the moment the session had started.

"What was the plan, Sync?"

 _Plan?_ She must've thought highly of Sync if she believed there had been an actual plan.

"Did you have connections? Were you planning to meet with someone on the outside?"

Ha! If only that had been the case. Asides from the guards, very few bots entered the Hell Cells - and none of them had spared so much as a glance at the wayward slaves. Autobots had no remaining friends on the surface of Cybertron. Just Decepticons glad to have found themselves on the winning team. Disabled comm. links, constant surveillance, and being stashed deep underground in a high security centre made outside contact _particularly_ difficult.

Regardless, it felt good to have _rattled_ Strika enough to make her fear such a development. The deactivated prod rested against Sync's chassis again, a clear threat despite the strangely... tense expression on Strika's faceplate. She examined the Autobot's features closely for any hint of an answer, as Sync's lip components remaining firmly sealed. Of course the Decepticons weren't under any threat. But she wasn't going to do anything to give Strika a reason to believe otherwise.

As much as she'd love to believe there were outsiders watching over them, there was no one.

"No," Strika removed the prod, much to Sync's surprise. "You don't have anyone. You're just stupid enough to try."

 _Apparently so._

Another missed opportunity to hurt her. Sync was beginning to wonder whether Strika had been replaced with an imposter, given all this peculiar behaviour. Pit, she should have threatened to remove Sync's glossa _at the very least_ , for her stubborn refusal to scream.

A familiar sneer curled over Strika's features, mood shifting yet again from seriousness to humour. The erratic changes were off-putting. If Strika was known for anything (other than sheer simpleness, of course), it was her predictability. It was one of her characteristics that actually made such sessions bearable - or, at least, worth risking in the name of freedom. Sure, her torture methods were uncouth and barbarically inventive. But the _way_ she went about it was fairly standard. Without that predictability, Sync was feeling unsettled.

Strika tapped the prongs of Energon prod against Sync's vocaliser, a contemptous smirk curling over her lip components as she tutted;

"Considering your brother was a mute, I would've thought you'd appreciate _this_ more."

The mention of her brother was like a knife in Sync's spark. Fury instantly overwhelmed her - and, in particular, her common sense. How _dare_ she speak of Bumblebee. How dare she mock the disability that _they_ had inflicted upon him. Her victorious smirk only infuriated Sync further. She certainly thought she had won some little _victory_ over Sync.

Deluded. As usual.

Sync gathered the Energon that had spilled into her mouth, spitting the substance directly into Strika's faceplate. Strika momentarily recoiled - her expression an amusing mix of disgust and surprise as she lifted a hand to wipe away the fluids. Sync's moment of victory was not to last long as realisation dawned on Strika. Her bemusement darkened into a glare of murderous intent.

Her oversized hand dwarfed Sync's entire helm, crushing her jaw in her thick digits and forcing her mandibles apart with a horrendous squeal of metal. She didn't have long to wonder about Strika's intentions. Sync caught the prod flashing in her peripheral vision, before the end was rammed down her fuel intake. Sync uselessly gagged around the foreign intrusion, convulsing in an effort to expel the obscene obstruction as it was forced deeper and deeper. Strika showed no indications of relenting until only the handle remained.

"You better get used to the feeling, love," Strika sneered. "The guards won't be half as gentle when they're fragging your faceplate later."

Sync didn't have time to be outraged, let alone scared of the not-so-empty threat. The sudden activation of the Energon prod was nothing less than an explosion throughout her circuitry; wiping any thoughts before they had a chance to form. Sync's frame seized from the excess current, limbs locked and back arching off the berth, paralysed in an awkward, twisted stance. The proximity to her vocaliser meant her long-awaited screams came out as nothing more than muffled static, whilst her vision randomly flickered between darkness and still-frames. It was unlike any pain she had experienced before. Certainly _nothing_ compared to the soft spots that Strika had previously been targeting.

She was being ignited from the inside out, and she couldn't do a damn thing about it.

After what felt like an eternity had passed, the prod was finally - _mercifully_ \- witched off again. She fell back to the berth, coughing and spluttering as the obstruction was ripped from her fuel intake. Her vision and audio receptors were still glitching, involuntary jerks shaking her chassis. Strika was saying something, but she couldn't quite decipher the words. A jab, undoubtedly. Some witty remark. She reluctantly rebooted her systems - Primus, just let her offline now - her sensors slowly coming online one at a time.

The first to return was her vision, which was how she realised that there was an additional presence in the room. She narrowed her optics first in disbelief, then in anger as she recognised the avian-like robot that had led her directly into her current predicament. He was perched atop one of the overhanging monitors, leering down at her prone form.

Great. Just what she needed. An audience.

"I take it you found everything in order, sir."

Odd. Why would Strika refer to a mechanimal so... deferentially? They were often regarded as barbaric creatures - rarely capable of speech, and hardly the type to be highly regarded in the Decepticon ranks.

Strika wasn't looking at him, though.

Movement caught in the corner of her visual field, optics reluctantly dragging to another area of the room as the realisation slowly caught up with her that Strika hadn't been speaking to the bird. Somebody else was there. A mech with a crowned helm design and a torso decorated with blue discs. He was taking his time as he crossed the threshold towards the berth - a slow, self-assured pace of a bot that thought himself the most important being in the room. Disbelief - and perhaps even a healthy dose of fear - suspended her ability to recognise him for the briefest of moments.

The war had changed him substantially. Or, perhaps, merely his time on Earth. He had lost some of his height, leaving him closer to Bumblebee's size instead of the imposing figure he once was. An unfamiliar crest also sat in the centre of his chestplate, a simple three-pronged sigil enclosed in a circle that was probably a remnant from the doomed planet. His chassis looked nowhere close to how he had been depicted in the reports. If it weren't for the similar helm, Sync would have been utterly clueless to his identity.

And perhaps it would have been better that way.

 _Soundwave._

Her spark dropped into her fuel tanks as the information slowly registered in her frazzled processor. That meant the bird wasn't just any mechanimal, either.

"This is the escapee?"

Sync flinched at the low, husky voice. Even though he was addressing Strika, his deadpan stare was fixed on Sync - making her hyperaware of the state of filth she was in, resisting the urge to squirm under his scrutinising gaze. What was the communications officer doing _here,_ of all places? He was a legend amongst Autobots and Decepticons alike; spoken of in fear on both sides. She knew him by reputation alone, and that was the only way anyone would want to know him. She unconsciously twisted her wrists in their restraints, as if they might come loose this time around. Bots of her rank weren't supposed to tussle with bots of Soundwave's rank. That was asking for trouble.

Asking for _termination_.

"Yes," Strika turned her attention to Sync with a glare. "This is the ungrateful glitchmouse."

The /newfound attention was acutely uncomfortable, though Sync tried not to make it obvious. This was not good. This was much, much worse than she had planned for. She had anticipated that failure would have meant that - if she survived the ordeal - there was going to be a whopping punishment to follow. She had anticipated that she might have even been deactivated in the process, whether accidentally or otherwise. She had not anticipated that that punishment might include the right hand hound of Megatron.

No wonder Strika had been so furious, so abnormally quick to rip her apart. Sync had just made a fool out of her in front of her superiors - and had incidentally thrown herself under the bus in the process.

 _You really_ ** _are_ **_a fool._

Sync's gaze darted around him as he stopped in the space next to her helm, unable to bring herself to look at the mech. He was only half the physical size of Strika, though it wasn't noticeable. He was intimidating enough that he seemed to dominate most of the space in the room - his presence alone completely dwarfing the existence of the gargantuan femme. If Sync wasn't trying so hard _not_ to look at him, she would have missed Strika shifting uncomfortably as the silence dragged out, tension building with each passing nanoklik until finally she couldn't take it anymore.

"Our defenses are unbreached. She was merely acting out of... impetuosity."

How many dictionaries had Strika had to scan to come up with that one? Sync was unsure what that meant, but she assumed it wasn't supposed to be flattering.

Sync felt rather than witnessed Soundwave's attention lifting from her. It was like a weight being removed from her chestplate, though his unnerving proximity meant that her shoulders remained hunched and hands curled into fists. Over his shoulder she could see Lazerbeak appearing to _grin,_ a feat that she hadn't even thought possible with a beak.

"Reports indicate starvation has been occurring for the past quartex," Soundwave intoned dispassionately, evidently unconvinced with the explanation.

Okay but that was sheer stubborness, not some elaborate scheme that everyone seemed to think it was. Was it really _that_ implausible that she might make such a rash decision? Were the Decepticons so _convinced_ that being a personal pleasurebot wasn't such an abhorrent fate? They knew. They knew there would be resistance and anger at any form of enslavement, it was simply the nature of sentient beings. She had merely seized an opportunity. Pissed the guards off in the hope that they would slip up. Played the long game simply because there wasn't exactly anything better to do to pass the time. Not the most sophisticated plan, granted, but she hadn't been given a lot to work with in the first place.

There was no reason for _Soundwave_ to be involved with actions so rash. She hadn't meant it to be some major security breach. Certainly wasn't expecting to get the opportunity again now that the 'Cons were onto her. She had learned her lesson and wouldn't do it again... maybe. Most likely. And if she had known how pissed they would get... nope, actually, she probably still would've done it. She just would've been more prepared for certain outcomes and attentions of characters even more unsavoury than Strika.

"Though her intentions have persisted for some time, sir, the plan was hardly thought out. Impulsive, even. She lacked the energy reserves to make it to the exit. She would have fallen into fuel-deprived stasis before she reached the doors - if she could even find them."

Sync probably would have appreciated Strika's fumbling to cover up her mistake more, if it didn't involve making Sync look like an idiot. It was hard to determine whether she felt better about her failure, knowing that she had never had a chance of succeeding in the first place. Or worse because she had unwittingly engaged in a fool's mission.

Strika's griping for his dismissal, however, was not appearing particularly fruitful if Soundwave's silence was anything to go by. Even Sync knew the dangers of letting Soundwave get _any_ dirt on a Decepticon - especially something as serious as this was turning out to be. Strika had just landed herself a one-way ticket into permanent aft-kissing land, lest Megatron be informed of a carefully-compiled and compromising list of failures that would inevitably result in her termination. And whilst the thought of Strika's untimely demise brought her some small measure of satisfaction, she didn't want to know what would then be in store for _herself_ by extension.

Evidently aware of the danger she was in, Strika's glossa continued to wag.

"Sir, if I may. She would have been caught much sooner if it weren't for the... interference."

"Lazerbeak, operating under my orders."

That was right. Lazerbeak had led Sync _away_ from the guards - even, daresay, saved her from an early capture. Sync wasn't sure of the reasoning herself, but some kind of realisation had dawned on Strika's faceplate, followed by a barely-disguised scowl. Apparently that meant something to her.

"Well," Strika was visibly struggling now, the beastly femme actually appearing _small_ under his scrutinizing gaze, "if anything, this will make her a good candidate for our latest project."

 _Uh, **no.**_

Sync hadn't though it possible for her to grow anymore tense, yet somehow her shoulder struts were almost at her audio receptors and her hands were squeezing the edges of the berth, as if that might stop them from being able to take her anywhere. Project? What _project?_ She hadn't known the detainment centre to be running science experiments on the side. Though, to be fair, what other use would they have for unruly slaves that didn't bend to their will? Being an Autobot was bad enough, but to cast away the benevolence of the great Decepticon leader - to shun their second chance at redemption? It made perfect sense that they would try to drag them down even further.

Whatever it was, she already didn't want any part of it.

Mention of such a project was enough to draw Soundwave's attention back to Sync, her spark whirring maniacally as she wondered whether that meant he was truly considering such a proposition. Strika gave her a small smirk of satisfaction. Whether due to Soundwave's renewed interest or Sync's wide/panic-stricken optics was unclear. Perhaps a combination of both.

"Approximate release date?" asked Soundwave.

"A while yet," Strika said. "She has come a long way, but... some _kinks_ remain to be ironed out."

"Most occupants are rehabilitated within 3 quartexs."

"Yes, sir, which is exactly why I believe she will be perfect for Project: Xenor."

Sync wanted to dispute such a claim. Her lip components parted for the briefest of seconds, before common sense overrode her desire to interject. Soundwave's scrutinisation was heavy, owing to her quick return to common sense. There was nothing she could say that would undo her fate. She was in their hands, as much as she hated it, and any objection would undoubtedly land her in deeper slag than she was already in. Still, she didn't want Strika digging herself out of a hole at the expense of Sync. Think, Sync, _think._

"Escape attempt: injudicious," Soundwave said, sounding almost accusatory. "Identities of associates?"

It took a moment for Sync to realise that Soundwave was addressing her. This was the second time that she had been asked about any accomplices, the roll of her optics such a force of habit that she hadn't realised she had done it. There _was_ no plan. Why was that so hard for bots to understand? They had them locked up pretty damn good underground. Had scared the rest of the Autobots into fleeing the entire fragging galaxy. How could anyone in their right mind honestly believe that her actions were driven by anything other than pure desperation?

Something tickled her shoulder strut as the silence dragged out, and though she harshly jerked away, the sensation persisted. She glanced downwards, optics widening in horror as she recognised the end of a cable slithering its way over her shoulder.

And it wasn't alone.

She struggled uselessly against her restraints as the offending appendages slid over her body, creepy feelers sprouting from the ends and prickling along her armour. Oh Primus no. She had heard rumours of Soundwave's hacking abilities - of possessing a processor so complex that he could literally infiltrate and stream data from a bot's personal mainframe. She had never believed that he was actually _capable_ of such a feat. The amount of data would have been immense, the firewalls too intricate to bypass. There was no way he was actually capable of rifling through her _thoughts._ Her very _memories._

"Sir, I have already interrogated her about this."

Strika shifted uneasily as she too watched the progress of the cables, though was powerless to move against her superior. The information in Sync's processor could just as easily jeopardize her captor as it may jeopardize herself. What information lay within that could be further used against the Decepticon femme? In this, at least, the femmes were united.

"Identities of associates?" he repeated, the calmness of his tone disguising a quiet amusement as she uselessly attempted to twist away from the invasion.

 _"No one!_ I don't know anyone!"

"Autobot: protecting outsiders."

 _"What_ outsiders? You guys have done a pretty good job dealing to those-"

A tentacle dipped beneath the surface of her plating, and she felt the first telltale sparks brushing against her circuitry. A harsh jerk on her restraints wasn't enough to dislodge it, and a panicked cry burst forth from her vocaliser.

"I swear, anyone with half a processor is in a different galaxy by now."

"There are Decepticon infiltrators. Decepticon _traitors."_

"Wha-" Sync hated the temporary flutter of hope in her spark at the belief of such a thing being true, the idea that there might be someone in their ranks waiting to make their move. Such thoughts were quickly pushed aside as the reality of the threat of the tentacles returned, and she swore she felt the touch of a consciousness against her own. Her processor immediately reeled away from the perceived contact. "No! I don't know! I just had to try, there was never anyone helping me!"

For the most terrifying of moments, she thought he was going to do it anyway. That her panicked outbursts meant nothing and he was about to tear her processor apart looking for the answers. Stories of mechs and femmes left incapicated from such an assault filled her mind, beginning to ponder the reality of a fate worse than eternal servitude.

Mercifully, the tentacles relented after a moment of hesitation, retreating back into Soundwave's form. Sync noticeably relaxed against the berth, though only marginally - the C.O. was still hovering over her and far too close for comfort.

"Sir?" Strika dared to question after a moment too long of silence.

"Autobot: vacuous. Examination is not required."

What was _that_ supposed to mean? Had he really just called her stupid?

Her indignant glare was met with what appeared to be smug amusement from Soundwave, though her ire lasted about half an astrosecond before the prod struck her across the faceplate.

"I have already told you to be careful of how you regard your superiors, slave."

It took every fibre of her being not to glare at Strika, though by some miracle of fate she managed to keep her gaze on the far wall. An animalistic chortle filled the air, and she felt the _whoosh_ of an artificially generated breeze pass harmlessly over her faceplate. A pair of claws settled beside her helm on the berth, Lazerbeak's leering head filling her vision.

"Such a defiant little Autobot..."

Lazerbeak's elongated neck curved around Sync's helm, resting his own against her cheek and chuckling softly. Whatever insult had been on the tip of Sync's glossa immediately died, along with the fire in her optics. She seemed to have forgotten about the presence of the avian, and the feeling of his tiny metal body _slithering_ around her helm was enough to replace her rage with uneasy surprise. His beak hung open in the resemblance of a grin, and she swore to _Primus_ if that was his glossa that she could feel...

"So _desperate_ to escape."

What could she say? Nothing with his big bad bodyguard standing mere inches away from them. Sync tightened her jaw and tried to ignore the uncomfortable feeling of the mechanimal snaking around her.

"My apologies to both you and Lazerbeak for this upset, sir." Strika watched the pair, expression unreadable. "This won't happen again."

Sync jolted as Soundwave's digits grazed over an old scorch mark, baring her denta at him angrily, if only by instinct. It was one of many old and uncomfortable wounds; that one, in particular, earned from a time that a guard had buried a prod so deep into her that he had left it standing there of its own accord. Soundwave glanced at her reaction, before returning his attention to her trauma-riddled chassis. This time his hand moved to trace over one of the neon strips along her sides. It was an uncomfortable feeling heightened by their sensitivity, but Sync was powerless to do much to stop it. Unwanted and intrusive images of him burying his digits into her abdomen and ripping out her gears tumbled around her processor.

"She will make a great addition to our latest research project." Ah, cue Strika, still trying to make herself relevant. "Our scientists have made considerable progress thus far, if you would like to take a look."

Sync didn't like the way Strika looked at her when she mentioned the research project. Almost like she couldn't wait to blow off her deactivation as a happy accident.

"Experimentation, Shockwave's expertise."

Sync's systems actually stalled at the idea of being one of Shockwave's lab rats. Things were going from bad to worse.

Lazerbeak made an unusual, guttural noise in the back of his throat, optics glinting knowingly as he shared a look with Soundwave. That wasn't what made Sync uncomfortable, however. It was the cold smirk that twitched at the corners of Soundwave's lip components that truly made her armour crawl in horror. Such blatant emotion from the typically stoic mech couldn't be a good sign.

"Autobot slave, recalcitrant." Soundwave wiped his dirtied digits on the side of the berth, before turning to Strika. "She's mine."

 _"Excuse me?"_

Sync hadn't realised she had spoken the words outloud. Not until Strika shot her a look of firm disapproval, though she also seemed to be questioning whether her audio receptors had just malfunctioned. Surely that didn't mean what Sync suspected it to mean.

Soundwave ignored both of them. He turned away from the berth and extended his arm, Lazerbeak dutifully landing on his outstretched wrist. As he exited, he issued one final order:

"Commence with reprogramming."

* * *

Reprogramming, as it happened, was a highly delicate procedure.

As the Med. Bay was not well-equipped for handling anything more complicated than protoform damage, Strika had the guards relocate Sync to their specialised operating theater instead. Strika hung back, sticking to the fringes of the room and allowing her medics the space they needed to work on the Autobot. They dutifully ignored the hissing and thrashing of their latest prisoner, commencing with the removal of plating around her helm-area in order to access the critical circuitry beneath.

One of the medics signaled to Strika that they were nearly ready. As she approached the berth, the last of the cables were coupled to Sync's mainframe and the connection was activated. A muted yelp of surprise left Sync's vocaliser as the invasive circuits established themselves into her systems, producing a 3D view of her processor on one of the displays. The real-time illustration of her mind was dotted with areas of activation, varying in colour according to the intensity. Strika smiled coldly at the deep red that highlighted her aggression centre.

That wasn't going to last for much longer.

"You made a big mistake today," Strika said, finally breaking the silence between them.

She hadn't spoken a word to Sync since they'd left the Med. Bay. There hadn't been much she _could_ say that would possibly top the misfortune that the Autobot had just brought down upon herself. _Soundwave_ , of all mechs. Strika still couldn't quite fathom it herself - nor could she fathom why Sync had been selected specifically. Though not unattractive, the Autobot was a curious choice considering that he was entitled to any femme throughout the slave industry.

In fact, Strika had all sorts of bots that she'd expressly captured with her superiors in mind. Models, scientists, even architects and musicians. Why the daft escape artist would be the one that ended up appealing to him, she couldn't quite say.

"It got me out of here, didn't it?"

The snark in Sync's tone failed to disguise the fear and uncertainty in her optics. She was just as confused as Strika about the turn of events, and infinitely less pleased. Strika couldn't help but wonder exactly how long it would take for her to regret leaving the _comfort_ of the Hell Cells. The mundane and routine events of the underground prison paled in comparison to the things that Strika had seen in the real world.

Then again, she knew better than to underestimate an Autobot's desperation. Sync probably thought she had a better shot at escaping out _there._ A pity Strika wouldn't be there to witness her reaction when she learned the truth.

And what a depressing truth it was for the unfortunate femmes. Strika couldn't help but wonder what a blow it must be to a bot's morale. That all they had been through during the war, all they had lost and suffered... ended up amounting to a big pile of _nothing._ It was a realisation that all Autobots eventually came to. She had seen the same despair echoed in a thousand optics - that acceptance of their dismal fate, of where all their pointless struggles to stay alive had inevitably led them.

Perhaps that was why she had come to enjoy Sync so much. Unlike the others, there had always been some naive form of hope lurking beneath the surface. A quiet belief that she would somehow work her way out of there. It was foolish, but a foolishness that Strika prized. Without that slither of hope, they all just broke too easily.

Of course, Strika would have liked that hope a whole lot more if it hadn't led to Sync making a complete fool out of her in front of her superior.

"I'm glad you know to be grateful, dear Sync. Not every slave gets such a... _prestigious_ master."

Strika grinned down at the restrained femme, driving the message home that there really wasn't much to be grateful for. 'Prestigious' could have been substituted with many words - ruthless, cold, and _unyielding_ chief among them.

Sync remained resolute, however, refusing to be openly frightened in front of her. Strika relished the opportunity to observe that spark of hope one last time; Primus knew, it was likely to be the final, surviving scraps. From what she had gathered during her time infiltrating Sync's squadron, the femme's experiences with Decepticons had been limited to battlefield encounters and the occasional interrogation. Hardly detailed representations of just how colourfully _creative_ the Decepticons could be when it came to inflicting suffering.

No, Sync wasn't anywhere near qualified enough to be playing with the big boys - and Strika wasn't counting on her last long. It was only a matter of time before that hope was extinguished. A shame to hand her over, really, knowing how quickly she'd crumble. There was no coming back once you tipped a bot over the edge. That spark would quickly be snuffed as the futility of resistance finally sank into Sync's thick helm; replaced by the endless abyss of emptiness that all slaves were ultimately consumed by.

Not that Strika would say that she pitied her. Oh no, rather, the Autobots deserved everything they got, as far as Strika was concerned. She was more resentful that her toy was being confiscated so soon, and even moreso that somebody else would have the pleasure of splintering her stubborn will. The mechs truly had no finesse, no _appreciation_ of the art of breaking in an Autobot. What could have been a fun project for Strika was now going to be somebody else's brutal butchering.

Poor thing probably had no idea what she was about to be stepping into.

Given the signal by one of the medics, Strika started up the device using one of the display panels. A soft hum filled the air as the machine began to warm up, coding flying past on the screen as it scanned the internal structure of Sync's processor. It was a tedious process; but a necessary one. Messing with a bot's internal coding was a delicate business, and mistakes in the past had been... irreversibly catastrophic.

"What are you doing?" Sync demanded, tugging against her restraints.

"It feels like only yesterday we met, doesn't it?" Strika reflected, deliberately ignoring the Autobot's question. "Do you remember?"

"I try not to."

"We had so much fun together, didn't we? Hanging out, sparring, confessing _secrets_..." Strika returned to the femme's side, a wicked grin on her faceplate. "I never thanked you for accepting me so readily into your team. It made capturing you so very, _very_ easy."

Sync's gaze continuously flicked between Strika and the display screens, as if unsure what she should be more afraid of. Strika could see the pain she was trying to mask behind the glare; could see her trying to force the memories from her processor. As if she would let it be that easy. As if she would let her _forget._

"Your team should have thanked you, Sync. If it weren't for your hospitality, I would never have let them join us on our journey home... for a time, anyways."

Sync hurriedly averted her gaze from Strika to the far wall, as if that would prevent her noticing the anguish that was blossoming in her optics. Strika remembered the events all too fondly herself. Sync's squadron had been located on the very fringes of Cybertron's galaxy - a band of suspicious mechs that had been initially reluctant to accept the disguised Strika into their ranks. Not that the chivalry of Autobots could ever resist helping a poor, desperate femme. Even a neutral one, at that.

Strika had been sure to return the favour by making them the crew's star entertainment during the journey back to Cybertron.

"Do you remember what we did to those poor mechs? Oh, what am I saying," Strika chuckled, "of _course_ you do."

The torture of the Autobot mechs, she would admit, wasn't completely necessary. Forcing Sync to watch hadn't been a requirement, either. That was all simply part of the _fun_. Eventually deactivating the mechs, however, was a fundamental component of Strika's job. Not only did Megatron have no immediate use for them, but their current set-up was dependent on the idea that Autobots were too preoccupied with keeping themselves alive to stage any type of rescue mission. The brutal slaughterings and relentless pursuits ensured that their forces remained scattered and disorganised; unable to plan any further than a day ahead of them.

The Autobot femmes had subsequently been abandoned in the name of survival. All pretense of courage and gallantry among the Autobot forces had finally been discarded, revealing the true nature of the cowards that had hidden behind Optimus Prime's cause. Nobody was coming to save the captured bots. And now that they had allowed themselves to be hunted to near extinction, they would be foolish to even try.

While such tactics had been originally employed to keep wannabe-heroes from interfering with their operations, the lack of allegiance had ended up running much deeper than Strika had anticipated. The newfound divisions were apparent even within the Hell Cells - even within Sync. Strika had seen the brief glance the Autobot had directed towards her cellmates while reviewing the security recording, had witnessed that precious moment where she had considered freeing them. But self-preservation was a compelling mistress. She had left them to their fate... just as the remaining Autobots had left the femmes to theirs.

The Autobots weren't a faction anymore. They were survivors, desperately clawing to keep their own helms above the water.

"Don't worry, dear. You're not all alone. You still have me."

"What are you going to do to me?" Sync growled, evidently fed up with her games.

"Nothing personal, dear." She smiled down at Sync patronisingly, patting her cheek for good measure. "Just a bit of mandatory programming to smoothen the transition.

A beep signaled that the device was ready, one of the displays lighting up with a green command prompt. Strika crouched down to be level with the Autobot, placing her lip components directly against her audio receptor as she hissed:

"And I want you to remember that _I_ was the one who did it."

* * *

 **Any thoughts, questions, suggestions, comments, criticisms. Let me know! ^-^**


	3. Project: Fleshlings

**Two quick things!  
**

 ** **1\. From now on, I'm posting updates to my profile whenever I log on. Just so y'all know that even if I haven't published anything new for a while, you can see when I've last been online and what I was doing.****

 ** ** ** **2**** **.****** ** ** **Thank you so much for your ongoing support! ^-^  
******

 **Replies to Anons  
Anon: _I'm doing my best not to have annual updates! Hang tight._  
Anonymouse: _Yeah, he gone :( Think DOTM if it went in favour of the Decepticons and you've basically got the background of this fic.  
_**

 **Units of Time**

 **Klik - 1.2 minutes**

 **Nanoklik - 1 second**

 **Quartex - 1 month**

* * *

 _"If you are neutral in situations of injustice, you have chosen the side of the oppressor."_ \- Desmond Tutu

The word "newbie" spread like wildfire throughout the Trypticon command complex.

Freeze had not yet managed to catch a glimpse of the latest arrival, though that was hardly a surprise considering most of her days were spent confined underground. Before the sun rose and well after it had dropped below the horizon, she was more often than not inside her Master's lab than out of it. Not exactly ideal for a chance meeting with Soundwave's newly acquired pet. Especially given her own Master's complete lack of interest in socialising, the odds of running into them were almost next to zero.

"Beaker," one of the lab assistants demanded, sticking his hand in her face.

Freeze dutifully handed over the requested item, idly watching him add the mysterious substance to the rest of the strange, chemical concoction. She often didn't attempt to understand what was going on in the lab - not when it came to the finer details, anyway. It was too convoluted. Too complex. All the equations and formulae and _numbers._ No thank you. Count her the frag out of that nonsense. As long as she could glean an idea of their intentions, she was satisfied. She had absolutely zero interest in the _how_ or _why_ of the actual methods.

She waited a few more kliks for him to ask anything else of her, before zoning back into her thoughts again.

All the above being said, she highly doubted anyone else had encountered the new slave, either. Many slaves were not permitted outside of their quarters without supervision - _particularly_ not during the early days of... acclimatizing to their new environment. No, Freeze imagined the femme would be sulking around Soundwave's apartment, bored out of her mind, yet also dreading any form of company. That was the way it was for many of them in the beginning. Solar cycles of being sullen, brooding, and oftentimes downright angry. Eventually they all found their ways of coping.

At least, those that lasted did.

"Pipette."

Still, she disliked the idea of being the last one in-the-know. And, if anyone, _she_ should be the first to meet the newbie. It was only fair after what had happened to Soundwave's last toy.

"The _other_ pipette," he snapped impatiently.

Freeze quickly corrected her choice, biting back a comment about his lack of specificity. She had forgotten the name of the lab assistant long ago - probably had never even been introduced to him in the first place, now that she thought about it. He was one of the few that seemed to arrive at the lab earlier than she did, and was rarely seen outside of his workstation unless of utmost necessity. Though his company was often an absolute bore, he was one of the more reasonable bots around the place (or as reasonable as Decepticons could get, anyway). And when you were nothing more than a slave, at the mercy of whoever's company you ended up in, boring tended to be a good thing.

She glanced at her internal chronometer, relieved to find that she would only be required for a few more minutes. This was becoming torture of an entirely different caliber.

"You better go before that _thing_ starts tearing the place apart."

Freeze dipped her head in agreement, thankful that they were on a similar train of thought. She gathered the appropriate Energon supplies from one of the storage closets and packed them onto a hover-cart, taking her no more than a few nanokliks to be out of the small workshop and beginning her descent into the lowest levels of the underground laboratory.

Considering that it was only intended to be temporary, she found the lab as a whole to be far too large, its design unnecessarily intricate. Each of its multiple layers were constructed to suit her Master's various research interests - the more sensitive projects being located deeper beneath the surface, in order to minimise interference from radiation. To be perfectly honest, she thought the whole thing was one giant clusterfuck of needless confusion. Only through sheer time, experience, and repeated mistakes had she managed to memorise its layout and trust her own navigation. Nobody had been considerate enough to even think about giving her a map.

The deeper she went, the darker the hallways became and the more oppressive the air seemed to become. Her typically iridescent armour looked dull and grey in the lackluster lighting, and she could not help but rub at it self-consciously, despite no one being there to witness. A force of habit, she supposed. And a vain one at that. Her surroundings gradually became less hallway-like and more tunnel-like, eventually ending at a large, circular door.

It was easy to assume that it had, once upon a time, served as a vault for something unspeakably valuable; if the reinforced doors and complicated failsafe systems were anything to judge by. What had happened to the previous contents was anyone's guess. Nowadays, it merely served as the home of one of Cybertron's most dim yet destructive creatures. She tapped in the appropriate access code, swinging the door open once she heard the telltale _thunk_ of the barriers unlocking.

The chamber beyond was pitch black - seemingly nothing more than a big, gaping void into nothing. Steeling her nerves with a large intake of air into her ventilation systems, she stepped through the doorway and into the darkness beyond.

With nothing but the light of her optics to guide her, she carefully picked her way to the end of the tunnel, where it opened into a large, empty space. There she hesitated, turning her audio receptors up as high as she could in an effort to pick up even the subtlest of noises. Something substantial was venting out heavy gusts of air in the space before her. She slowly bent down to lift the first cube off the loaded cart, trying not to make any sudden movements that would potentially get her helm knocked straight off her shoulders.

"Hey, buddy," she murmured softly to the darkness, pitch slightly higher than normal due to her nervousness.

A low, rumbling growl that seemed to reverberate throughout the cavern was the only response. She didn't dare turn on the spotlight beneath her chestplate to better investigate the source. It _despised_ the light almost as much as it despised the rest of the world, and she needn't give the colossal creature any reason to attack. It would do so with much less provocation than that.

She tossed the Energon cube up into the air, grabbing onto the cart for support as the entire chamber _shook_ with the creature's movement. There was the sounds of drilling and the flash of hundreds razor-sharp denta that seemed to spiral inwards to a cavernous mouth, before with a sharp _snap_ the glow of the cube was gone. She repeated the process until all fifteen cubes had been successfully devoured, throwing the last two at the same time to give her extra time to get out of the chamber before he decided she would make a good snack, too.

"Good to see you," she said sardonically over her shoulder as she swung the door shut again, waiting to hear the reassuring noise of all the barriers being back in place before returning to the upper levels of the lab.

Whoever thought it was a good idea to keep a Driller in the basement was clearly out of their fragging mind.

The culprit, of course, didn't seem to care too much about the consequences of such a decision for his underlings. Her Master's most prized pet was infamously temperamental with anyone that was not him. It remained mostly subdued throughout the day, provided that Freeze had accomplished her daily duty of refueling the nightmare creature. As far as she knew, she was the only one other than him even granted entry to the chamber after the last fatal incident. Probably the only one expendable enough to be allowed to anywhere close to it.

She arrived outside said Master's office shortly thereafter, listening for the telltale sign of voices that would indicate it was safe to interrupt. Under normal circumstances, she wouldn't dare enter his office unless explicitly invited to do so, but the presence of another bot assured her that she would not be breaking his concentration and therefore not inviting his ire. Entering her unique access code she stepped through the doors, spark immediately dropping into her fuel tanks as she recognised the additional faceplate waiting for her on the other side.

 _Flatline._

Freeze quickly shifted her gaze so as not to appear as if she were glaring at him, carefully moving around the fringes of the room to stand at the side of her Master. She glanced around the room absently as she tried to pretend she wasn't paying attention to their conversation.

The office was, in all honesty, less of an office and more of a private lab. A work station had been situated in the middle of the room, complete with test tubes and flasks and various other equipment that she couldn't hope to name. Large screens dominated most of the walls, displaying various chemical compounds and algorithms that may as well have been written in a different language. Flatline - who by the sounds of it, had been away for the last week running errands - stood on the opposite side of the room to them. She wouldn't pretend like the whole lab hadn't been happier for his absence.

"...at Tyrest have reported great success with Project: Xenor. They believe it only a matter of months before it will be ready to be relocated here, pending your approval."

"Perhaps. I will review their progress in-person and judge their success for myself."

"Trust me, sir. You'll be more than impressed. Never seen bots so eager to-"

Flatline suddenly broke off as her Master fixed him with a hard stare. She knew that look all too well - a strong indication to stop talking. Flatline's gaze flicked towards Freeze, realisation dawning on his faceplate, and bowed his head to her Master in understanding.

Oh. There was something she wasn't supposed to know.

She tilted her helm to the side, curiosity piqued. Slaves were the invisible and inconsequential companions of their Masters. There was rarely any effort, or need, to intentionally hide information from them. If there was something being consciously kept from her, then it had to be something important. Really important. And considering the many highly confidential and extremely disturbing conversations that she had been privy to in the past, she couldn't begin to imagine what could be so top-secret that they would not speak freely in front of her.

"As I said, I will determine that for myself."

Her Master's tone indicated that the conversation was at an end. Flatline did not do a good job of hiding his irritation, apparently not having received the enthusiasm and praise that he had anticipated (though, Freeze thought, that was hardly surprising considering the nature of the mech he was talking to). Nonetheless, he obediently nodded his helm and vacated the office, like the good puppy he was. Freeze turned to her Master the moment the doors had firmly closed behind his back.

"Your finish is looking particularly lustrous today, Master. New polish?"

"No." Came the flat answer. He turned his back on her, approaching one of the overhanging screens and pulling up a new set of Cybertronian coding. "I do not recall summoning you, Slave Freeze."

"My apologies for the intrusion, Master. I was merely wondering whether Flatline would take over caring for the subjects now that he has returned."

A lie. She was not aware that Flatline would be returning that day, nor did she particularly care for his schedule. But it was a better reason than admitting she had been bored and unwilling to return to his other, boring assistants with their equally boring projects.

"I don't see why not."

Freeze bit her lower lip components, already thinking of several reasons why Flatline shouldn't be taking care of anyone. Most of the lab assistants possessed a blatant and total disregard for any form of sentient life, but the times she had spent with Flatline had revealed he possessed a particular taste for... barbarity. A love for tormenting those whose lives were already the epitome of anguish. Being a witness to his atrocities was bad enough, but having no choice but to actively and knowingly assist in his sadistic acts had haunted her memory purges for the past few quartexs.

"I was thinking maybe I could take over that role."

Finally, he turned.

Freeze took an unconscious step backwards, putting some extra distance between herself and the imposing form. He was a large mech... to put it lightly. Taller than the likes of Megatron, anyway. Freeze was not a short bot by any stretch of the imagination - having often made a point of flaunting her long legs and graceful stature - but even the top of her helm did not reach his shoulder struts. She had often despaired over his size when he had first selected her. That and the fact that he was about as emotive as a pile of slag.

"Why?"

The AstroMag cannon that had replaced one of his arms only added to his menacing appearance, and the way he was glowering down at her made her feel smaller still. Freeze shifted uncomfortably despite herself. There were few bots that could look him in the optic without losing their nerve - and she wasn't one of them.

"W-Well I'm not really needed elsewhere, and it's a p-pretty straightforward job that I've been doing for the past week now..."

Primus, she was stuttering. _Why_ was she stuttering? She hated stuttering. It was not in her nature, never had been, not until she had been forced under the thumb of the Decepticon's mad scientist. Her armour was already growing uncomfortably warm from the sheer audacity of her suggestion. She could not bring herself to _ask_ things of him. Should not. She was in no position to be making requests.

But he was not _unreasonable,_ she reminded herself. She took a moment to cycle a large amount of air through her ventilation systems, regaining some semblance of her composure as she successfully calmed the rising panic that had taken hold of her. This would not earn her time in the Room. It was not defiant. It was not insubordinate. At worst, he would reject her offer and send her back to handing equipment to boring mister ChemicalBot. It was nothing more than an innocent suggestion. She just needed to justify why it was a _good_ suggestion.

"I thought it might better serve you, _Master_ Shockwave."

The darkly-coloured scientist eyed her silently, evaluating, considering whether there was an ulterior motive. There was - of _course_ there was - but Freeze knew the motive was a harmless one, and that her argument made sense. Why have a trained and highly skilled assistant labouring over the upkeep of subjects, when he could be spending his time on more valuable things? Freeze knew the ins-and-outs of the procedures. She had proven herself capable during his absence. And, really, nothing seemed to please Shockwave quite like a slave that was on their best behaviour. It seemed like the _logical_ choice. She could only hope that she'd said enough to lead Shockwave to that same, logical conclusion.

"Very well. I will inform Flatline."

Freeze bit the inside of her cheekplates to prevent the smile that threatened to emerge. "Am I dismissed, Master?"

"Yes."

It took all of her self-control not to skip out the doors.

* * *

The Containment Unit was just a fancy name for where Shockwave kept his experimental subjects.

The majority of the space was dominated by large, transparent cubicles that housed whatever creatures were unfortunate enough to tickle his fancy. Normally they contained one bot per cell, but Shockwave's latest interests were not so... mechanical. And, thus, not quite so large. Currently each cube held about 20 heads, with plenty of room left for whatever... activities took their fancy. Freeze wasn't well-versed in what the little beings actually spent their time doing. Not a lot, if her recent experiences were anything to go by.

As per their usual routine, they immediately backed away from the walls of their cells as she entered, rousing any of their companions that had fallen into a state of recharge. Sometimes they babbled quietly to one another in their strange, guttural language. For now, they were perfectly silent. Fine by her. Freeze tried not to take too much notice of their beady eyes tracking her every movement, keeping her actions slow and unthreatening as she went about the task of replenishing each cube's refuel and water supplies.

Not one of them would make a move towards any of the resources. They wouldn't touch it in front of her - they never did - but it was always depleted whenever she returned.

The proper term for the organic life was humans, though she rarely heard anyone refer to them as anything other than insects. Shockwave had collected about 200 of them; 100 per gender, which had seemed excessive until she had witnessed firsthand their extreme fragility. A couple had already been accidentally squished underfoot. A few more had perished simply from the stress of their circumstances. They were curious, delicate little creatures that could have only survived as long as they had by luck alone.

Another reason to keep them as far from Flatline's reach as possible.

She activated the retrofitted scanners on each of the cells, mass-producing a compilation of data about the vitals and well-being of each creature inside. Nothing of immediate alarm emerged. A handful not recharging properly, others not refueling properly. It had something to do with stress, again, or so she had heard from the lab assistants. Apparently their natural response to anything difficult was to start dying.

A second report of their status emerged for the femme organics; an indication of their fertility stages. From the small bits of information she had gathered from passing conversations, the project was concerned with the development of sparklings. _Organic_ sparklings. Or "fleshling spawn," as the assistants had so lovingly termed it. Despite originally arriving in their billions, the Decepticons' labour force was perishing faster than they had anticipated, and the reconstruction of Cybertron was far from complete. To complicate matters further, she had heard that the development of their offspring was often long, tedious, and rarely successful if not under the correct circumstances.

A lack of proper care even risked the loss of two lives - the carrier and her young.

It was an ongoing issue that Shockwave had been tasked with rectifying. The Decepticons needed a way to bypass any reliance on their fragile, organic bodies if they wanted any hope of mass-producing them. Removing the insect factor, she had heard someone call it. It had thus far seemed the only viable way of increasing their chances of reproductive success and speeding up the overall reproductive process. Though, it was that same frailty that was making his typically brutal experimentations so difficult to carry out.

Freeze continued on with the rest of her maintenance duties, taking her time as she went. Disinfecting lab equipment, cleaning the cells of the questionable muck the organics left behind. Admittedly, she had not enjoyed spending even half as long in the Containment Unit when it had been bots confined within the cells. She had never known when she would be refueling them one day, then picking up their pieces the next. But it was easier when it wasn't your own species. Their desperate cries were easier to ignore, their gazes hateful rather than pleading. They blamed Freeze as much as they blamed any of the other Decepticons and, in some ways, she would rather that than them begging her for help.

In that sense, she was grateful for the language barrier. Freeze did not have to know the flesh creatures. She did not have to _understand_ or _sympathise_ with them. She wished no further suffering upon them, but turning a blind optic to their ongoing torment was not quite such a... burden on her conscience. They were strangers. Aliens.

Slaves.

She sighed to herself, knowing how hypocritical and selfish she was being. They were sentient, and thus deserving as of much respect as she would deliver her own kind. She would argue with herself, however, that she had already done them a huge favour by ridding them of Flatline... if only temporarily. Even if they did not know it - _could not know it_ \- she had done the little that she could to spare them unnecessary harm. Despite her participation in their ongoing subjugation that, surely, made her at least somewhat redeemable. If not in their eyes, then at least in her own.

"Femme."

Freeze started in surprise, glancing over her shoulder strut to confirm the identity of the voice. Sure enough, the black-and-red mech was leaning against the doorframe, looking mighty pleased with himself.

"Flatline," she acknowledged, turning to face him front-on. "What are you doing here?"

"Just checking that everything's a-okay. You know. Seeing as you've replaced me and everything."

Freeze bristled, quickly absorbing the staunchness of his posturing, which was not quite as relaxed as she had first assumed. His arms were tense and yet loosely crossed over his chesplate, legs bent slightly as if ready to pounce at a moment's notice. She was not in the best position to dodge any attack, either - confined between two rows of cubicles on either side, with nothing but a dead end at her back. Not to mention that Flatline was blocking the only exit from the Containment Unit.

Scrap. How had she not foreseen this?

"Everything's fine, thank you, sir." She was careful to keep her tone even and polite, discreetly maneuvering herself to allow a little more distance between them. The humans moved with her, the sea of bodies parting wherever she drew close. "I thought you would have been enjoying the extra time on your hands."

" _Did you?"_ He almost laughed, eyeing her up with a knowing and all-together chilling look. "Here I thought maybe you'd done it on purpose. That maybe you, I don't know." He made an over-the-top display of shrugging. "That you were trying to keep me away."

Freeze swallowed thickly, holding her ground as he approached. No longer was he blocking the doorway, but thanks to the set-up of the cubicles she still wouldn't be going anywhere without getting past him first.

"Silly, I know," he waved his hand dismissively, though a cold smile was forming on his faceplate. "No slave would be so bold, would they?"

"Of course not," she agreed, giving him a friendly - albeit confused - smile. "That wouldn't be our place."

"No, it wouldn't be, would it?" He stopped a few metres short of her. Close enough that she wouldn't be able to do much if he decided to strike. "Which is why it really grinds my gears that some upstart has been with interfering in my fun."

There it was.

"That was not the intention. Master Shockwave was freeing you for more important-"

 _"Master Shockwave,"_ he sneered in a high-pitched and unflattering mockery of her voice. "Don't pretend like you don't want to purge every time you say it, fembot."

Freeze quickly shut her mouth, stunned into silence by the entirely truthful comment. This was not going well. She had expected that Flatline would be disappointed that he wouldn't be able to pass his time starving and tormenting the subjects. Even, perhaps, that he might pretend that he had not heard the news and continued in such a post regardless. She had not anticipated that he would track her down, however. And nor had she predicted that he would correctly deduce _her_ to be the bot that had come up with the idea. She needed to get a handle on the situation before it was beyond salvaging.

Flatline nodded towards the closest cells, where the humans had shrank as far away from the Decepticon as their confines would allow. "See these guys? They've learned respect. They know when to get out of someone's way." He shot her a sidelong glance. "I think a few slaves could learn from them. Don't you agree?"

 _At least they've got a wall separating you and them._

Freeze had no such luxuries. Pit, she lacked the simple pleasure of self-defense. Reprogramming protocols were already responding to the tension building in her frame - preventing her hands from closing into fists and shutting down any thoughts of violence before they could fully come to fruition. As per usual, she was left utterly defenseless in the absence of her Master.

She was going to have to get creative.

She dropped her gaze to his pedes, doing her best to appear demure and submissive despite every circuit screaming for her to get the frag out of there. "I'm not... I'm not really supposed to say."

"Say what?"

"Why he wanted to move you out of the Containment Unit."

That got his attention. He shifted slightly, paused before replying. She didn't dare lift her gaze to examine his expression, but she imagined it would be one of confused interest. _Take the bait, take the bait, take the bait..._ she silently chanted to herself.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Master Shockwave was, er... well, he had noted the state that some previous subjects were left in. And he was concerned about... well, the organics... you know..."

"Spit it out, slave!"

"He was concerned that the organics might not last under your care."

It was a fair argument, and she would have been confident in its success if it had been Shockwave, as opposed to Flatline, that she was pleading it to. Shockwave would have acknowledged that he was too rough and cruel for the fragile beings. Shockwave would have accepted that it was inefficient and senseless to put a dying species at further risk. Shockwave, unlike Flatline, was cool-headed and practical. Almost, daresay, predictable. It was Shockwave's most redeeming quality.

Perhaps his only redeeming quality.

Flatline - the unpredictable, hot-headed, and unreasonable counterpart - was silent for a few, drawn out moments. "I see." _Hook, line, and sinker._ "Why didn't you say it was your fault?"

"I-" Freeze's voice faltered, surprised by the accusatory nature of the question. As if he actually _expected_ her to take the fall for him. The audacity of this guy. _He's angling for a fight,_ a small voice warned her. "I am not capable of inflicting violence, sir." _Duh._

Flatline scoffed, though she had a feeling his derogation was aimed more at her helplessness than her excuse. The explanation was apparently satisfactory, however, as he abruptly turned away from her without another word. Freeze did not take her optics off him as he left. In fact, she did not fully relax again until the doors had shut behind him and his pedesteps had faded down the hallway.

Frag's sake. These mechs were mental.

When there was nothing left to pretend to busy herself with, Freeze finally rejoined Shockwave within his office. She had crept down the hallways tentatively, helm on a swivel despite the fact that Flatline had seemed placated. _For now,_ she thought to herself grimly. She had a feeling that it would not be the last she saw of the quick-tempered scientist. As much as she hated to admit it, there really was only one place that she would feel safe.

"Again, Slave Freeze, I did not summon you."

"Please, Master Shockwave. Surely there is something I can do?"

No doubt there was a mountain of data waiting to be compiled and filed, or at the very least a report that was in need of reviewing. The contents were often nonsense to her, and she would not dare to ask Shockwave to explain any of it. Partly because she knew the answer would be a definite 'no.' Mostly because she thought it would be better for her conscience if she remained blissfully oblivious. Any excuse to stay within Shockwave's office, at the end of the day, was miles better than no excuse at all.

Something in her tone must have tipped him off. The mouthless mech looked up from his work with a frown, expression indecipherable as he looked her up and down. Freeze did not want him to read her desperation, but she had a feeling he had already heard it.

"What is wrong?"

"Nothing," she answered too quickly.

"Do not lie to me, Slave Freeze."

Hilarious, he spoke as if that were so easy. If she admitted that she'd had a standoff with Flatline, she would undoubtedly cop the blame for the whole thing. On the other hand, pretend everything was fine, and he might send her away regardless. Shockwave was not a therapist. He was not a confidante. And he was hardly known for his compassion. She chewed the inside of her cheekplate, at a loss for how best to handle her situation.

"Flatline was not impressed with the new... arrangement. We had a bit of a confrontation."

Her Master, as anticipated, did not seem particularly bothered nor concerned by the news. "You have no reason to fear Flatline. Decepticons will not lay a hand on another's slave."

Right, because the Decepticons were _so_ good at following the rules. Nobody gave a flying frag about respecting anyone else's property - not so long as they thought that they could get away with it. Shockwave was, like many masters, either deluded or wholly indifferent when it came to the matter of their slave's safety. Why had she bothered being honest? As if he would side with her under any circumstances. Freeze tried to swallow her irritation before forcing out her reply. "Understood, Master. I suppose I am just rattled."

He considered her for a few moments, and she feared that perhaps he had seen the animosity in her optics before she had managed to reign it in. Rather than reprimand her, however, he nodded towards one of the interfaces and turned back to his own. "Commence with organising and compiling data."

Her shoulder struts sagged in relief, releasing a cycle of air that she had not realised she had been holding."Thank you, Master Shockwave."

"Do not interrupt my work," was his flat response.


	4. Safe

**Important: Rating has been moved up to M, for heavily implied rape in this chapter.**

 **This chapter brings us back to Sync, but attention will be more evenly distributed among the characters from here on out. Next chapter will be Phoenix (Starscream), and then Airstrike (Megatron).** **Reminder, that this story is intended to be a bit brutal and dark.**

 **I definitely reached a "fuck it" stage while editing this, I just wanted to get it published. Sorry if the quality has taken a hit as a result.**

 **~Replies~**

 **Dee:** Glad you're enjoying it, thanks for your review!  
 **QueenCon:** Interesting you say that, I've actually felt the creepiness has been lacking in this rewrite. Thank you tho!  
 **Little Bird:** She's not doing anything wrong, lol! She's a good friend, offering advice is what she does and I look up to her in terms of writing. I can handle a bit of criticism - in fact, provided it's constructive, I appreciate it :) Thank you for looking out for me though, it's very sweet. Hope you enjoy the next chapter!

* * *

 _"Fear is the foundation of safety."  
_ \- Tertullian

It wasn't long after Sync returned online that she sorely wished she hadn't.

An uncomfortable pressure was digging into her abdomen, her arms dangling uselessly above her head and her spinal struts aching from the unusual position she was bent in. She groggily brushed aside the prompt box informing her of successful software installation, squinting her optics at the moving ceiling above her. No, rather, _she_ was moving. And it wasn't the ceiling that she was staring at. Her processor took a few nanokliks to recalibrate, slowly piecing together the information to create a story that made sense.

A comrade carrying her to safety. _Safety?_ Her hands scrabbled for purchase along their back, the realisation that she was slung over someone's shoulder strut sinking in, closely followed by the recollection that she was not among friends. The arm around her waist tightened in response to the squirming - seemingly in an attempt to keep her from rolling off - and then abruptly disappeared, sending her crashing to the floor.

Sync's landing was ungainly. Her shoulder strut hit the ground before the rest of her body, ending up twisted at the waist and faceplate-down in the middle of the hallway. With a soft grunt she rolled away from the bot that had unceremoniously dropped her, shakily pushing herself into a sitting position and meeting a pair of red optics that were staring down at her. It should not have alarmed her that Soundwave happened to be the owner of those optics, yet she flinched regardless. Not exactly the friendly faceplate she had been hoping to see.

Now that they were outside of the Cells - without the limitations of being strapped down to a medical berth - she was treated to a much more up-close-and-personal look at the Communications Officer. There was a cunning and calculating glint in his optics that she immediately distrusted; a quiet intelligence that knew few morals. Not even close to the type of low-ranking thug that she had mentally prepared herself to be owned by. Soundwave was quick. Soundwave was clever. Soundwave was capable of rubbing more than two processing cells together and was always two steps ahead of the game.

Games that you didn't always realise you were playing.

Sync distracted herself from her doomed thoughts with a quick glance around her surroundings, confirming what she had feared: they weren't in the Hell Cells anymore. At least, not any sector that she recognised. Exactly how long had she been carried for? And where to? It made her uncomfortable to think she had actually been... _touching_ the mech for any length of time.

Lazerbeak alighted upon Soundwave's now-unoccupied shoulder strut, sneering down at her with nothing less than searing contempt. Sync felt her cheekplates beginning to warm despite herself; though she could not deduce whether she was blushing out of anger or embarrassment.

"Up."

To her surprise, she obeyed the Communications Officer. They were the only occupants in the otherwise empty corridor, standing a few feet from a brightly-lit "Exit" sign overhanging a pair of wide doors. _Run,_ her thoughts whispered to her, soft and careful as if afraid the Decepticon might overhear. It would be very simple to do. There were no cuffs. No guards. Just the uncertainty of which of them was faster, and... what she would actually _do_ if she did manage to outrun both of them. There was an unknown, foreign, and undoubtedly hostile world waiting for her beyond those doors. And considering the spectacular failure of her last uninformed and opportunistic escape plan...

She may need a smarter approach than boosting it whenever she got the chance.

"Fleeing, unadvised," Soundwave said, reading her posture flawlessly. _Or perhaps my thoughts,_ she noted grimly. Who knew what was truth and what was fiction when it came to Megatron's favourite officer? "Unfamiliar Decepticons, hazardous to Autobots."

So, stick with him and she'd be _safe?_ She internally scoffed at the idea, though her demeanor shifted to indicate her compliance. As much as it pained her to admit it, she was more afraid of disobeying out _here_ than she had been in the Hell Cells. At least in the Cells, she had been prized property. A complete nuisance, yes, but a nuisance that was too costly to permanently terminate. Now that she was on the outside, she had no value. Her existence was only as relevant as Soundwave deemed it to be.

And disobedience didn't seem like the best way to endear him to her.

Besides, who knew what Soundwave was capable of? She wasn't interested in testing the limits of his patience quite so soon into her enslavement. Not when she had yet to make it through the first night with him... and whatever horrors _that_ would undoubtedly entail.

Whether it was the stray thoughts about interfacing or a simple impulse to maintain distance from things that had murderous reputations, Soundwave's step towards Sync was perfectly matched with a quick step backwards from her. She glared at him indignantly for even trying to breach her bubble, lower lip component curling back into a snarl. They had done more than enough _touching_ while she was unconscious, thank you very much.

"Don't touch me."

"Autobot's fears, needless." The look Soundwave gave her bordered on challenging. "Harm is not my intent."

 _Yet,_ she mentally corrected for him.

Nonetheless, she managed to hold her ground the next time he closed the distance between them - albeit with a fair amount of bristling on her behalf. Shame coloured her cheekplates again as she instinctively flinched away from his raised hand, only for him to wipe away a scuff that she had acquired from her clumsy tumble. When had she gotten shiny enough for a simple _scuff_ to noticeably mar her finish?

A second glance at her armour revealed that she had, in fact, been cleaned at some point without her knowledge. There was no trace of any evidence of her time in the Hell Cells - her frame wiped clear of any grime, wounds, and even the scorch marks that had seemed to become a permanent addition to paintwork. When had she been repaired and polished? And, more importantly, by who?

"Stay close," he warned her.

Soundwave proceeded towards the exit. Sync clicked her glossa in annoyance about being ordered around, but dutifully remained a step or two behind. The exit doors opened into another foyer and, from there, into the open streets beyond.

The unusual, hexagonal architecture and squat buildings made the city of Tyrest easy to identify. Sync's steps faltered, momentarily stunned by the actuality of seeing her planet restored to some version of its former glory. She had known the Decepticons were rebuilding, of course. Had seen a glimpse of the surface before she had been forced deep underground. But seeing it with her own optics was a different experience entirely. The newness of the structures gave them a unique shine that they had not originally possessed, the layout improved and refined to accommodate the large influx of Transformers that it would be required to house as the ruins of the rest of Cybertron were cleared and rebuilt.

Tyrest was everything and nothing like how she remembered it.

Soundwave was on the move, giving her little time to fully appreciate and absorb all of the details as she hurried to keep up. The streets were packed with Decepticons of all shapes and sizes, pushing her closer towards Soundwave as she attempted to keep him in her sights among the constant swell of bodies. There were more bots on the streets alone than she had seen for _eons._ Exactly how many Decepticons had survived the war? How many Autobots had been killed to reduce her own faction's numbers so drastically in comparison?

Her helm was on a constant swivel as she clawed her way through the masses, half-expecting to be shot in the back at a moment's notice. The Autobot sigil on her arm was painfully apparent among the sea of hostiles; a giant, flashing beacon that just seemed to beg for some manner of punishment. And yet, few Decepticons spared her anything more than a second glance as she pushed through their ranks. She was, in essence, invisible. Insignificant. A secondary character to a bigger, crueler bot that she was enslaved to.

Well, that was until she became sidetracked staring at a suspiciously familiar Decepticon over her shoulder, and incidentally crashed into another.

She stumbled back a few paces, momentarily dazed. Sync had barely registered her mistake before hands were being hooked into her chestplate, lifting her pedes a good few inches off the ground and bringing her faceplate-to-faceplate with a _particularly_ angry-looking mech.

"What do we have here, boys?" he spat, intentionally spattering her with his fluids. "A lost little Auto _brat."_

Two more Decepticons emerged from the crowd to form a protective semi-circle around the pair, each sporting a strange set of long, whip-like treads that extended from behind their helms. The mech with a tight grip on her - _Spiky,_ she decided to call him, due to the wicked curve of his over-sized shoulder struts - shared a meaningful glance with each of them. Great. An established team that could communicate with mere _looks._

She might be in a bit of trouble.

"She's tattooed," the mech to her left said, a multi-opticked creep with the longest treads out of all of them.

"A rebel," Spiky sneered, twisting her around to see the Hell Cells symbol that had been branded on the back of her neck quite some time ago. "You like to play rough, do you, femme?"

The third and final mech - almost as tall as the others, despite the fact that he walked on all fours - let out an animalistic snarl. Spiky chuckled, nodding towards his four-pede'd companion. "Hatchet likes to play rough, too."

"You couldn't handle me," Sync hissed.

They laughed, loudly and derisively. Spiky threw Sync back to the pavement; initially landing on her aft, but being knocked sideways with a hard kick to her chestplate. Multi-Optics planted a pede in her spinal struts, pinning her down as the one they called Hatchet slowly advanced, jaws snapping menacingly.

Sync tried to command her body to retaliate: to kick the 'Con off her, make them pay, _anything_ except lying in the dirt like some limp robo-fish. Yet her limbs suddenly weighed a ton - slow, sluggish, and producing little more than half-hearted jerks whilst error messages clogged up her visual field. She repeatedly dismissed the prompts, too desperate and frightened to properly read the contents. Had she frozen in terror, was that what was going on? Forgotten how to fight? Had all those quartexs of inactivity screwed with her motor skills?

Primus damnit, what was _wrong_ with her?

Sync cursed under her breath as she continued her war against her own chassis, Hatchet drawing ever-closer. A crowd had gradually begun to form around them; her cloak of invisibility apparently lifted now that there was a spectacle to behold. Their jeers and taunts fueled her frustration as she struggled to overcome her abrupt paralysis, her frame growing increasingly limp the more she battled it, and- _for Pit's sakes would those error messages just get the **frag** out of her way?_

A pair of pedes chose that moment to appear before her faceplate, immediately halting Hatchet's advance. Sync did not bother to look up to identify the owner. She didn't need to (or want to, for that matter). There was only one mech that everyone would have parted so effortlessly for.

"Release her."

Multi-Optics reluctantly stepped away, allowing her to scramble back to her pedes. How considerate of her body to listen to _that_ command. Once again flushed and humiliated, she leveled a spiteful glare at her now-disgruntled attackers. Just as she was about to make a snappy remark to regain some face, however, Soundwave roughly yanked her behind the safety of his form - effectively silencing her attempt at being a smart-aft.

There was that awful word again. _Safety._

"We were just messing around," Spiky said, folding his arms over his chestplate defensively. "Didn't realise she belonged to you."

Sync snarled angrily - about to inform them that she didn't belong to _anyone -_ but Lazerbeak was suddenly on her shoulder and digging his talons in, cutting off her protests with a noise of hurt.

"Autobot, newly acquired." Soundwave turned to her, expression perfectly blank. "And about to make us late."

His hand had clamped around her wrist before he could protest, the gathered Decepticons quickly parting for the trio as he dragged her into the busy streets. Sync glared at Soundwave's back as she stumbled along behind him, trying to ignore the pain of his vice-like grip and quietly fuming over the entire exchange. She was perfectly capable of defending herself. The last thing she need was her big, bad _protector_ adding to her humiliation.

"Autobot, careless," Soundwave intoned, once they had entered another building and found themselves alone in the elevator.

Sync stared at the hand still crushing her wrist, not bothering to hide her bitterness. "I was fine."

Lazerbeak chortled, settling on Soundwave's outstretched arm and sneering at the Autobot; "Thank you would've sufficed."

 _"Thank you?"_ Sync glared at him, equal parts infuriated and horrified at the mere suggestion. "For _what?_ For putting me here in the first place? For murdering anyone that-"

Her tirade quickly ended once she noticed Lazerbeak's amusement growing with every infuriated word, realising that the mechanimal had been intentionally pushing her buttons. Sync bit her glossa and forced herself to deflate - admittedly with some degree of difficulty - pointedly turning away from the avian's smug expression before she was tempted to go off on him again. Whatever Soundwave lacked in personality, his companion certainly made up for in plain _annoyingness._

"Autobot, wishes to be harmed?" asked Soundwave.

"Are you threatening m-"

"Autobot, wishes to be harmed?" he interrupted, this time more forcefully.

Sync fell silent, searching his expression for any indication of what he was getting at. What kind of asinine question was that? Did he mean it as a warning not to run her mouth again? Or - she didn't know whether to laugh or cry at the thought - an inquiry about her interfacing preferences?

"Answer."

"Of course I fragging don't-"

She abruptly cut herself off as Soundwave took a step closer to her, effectively pinning her against the wall with his body. There had already been limited space between them, and she leaned her helm as far from his as possible in a desperate attempt to preserve some of that distance. The Communications Officer did not seem to notice the lack of personal space - or, more likely, simply did not care. _Personal space is the least of your_ _worries_ , she thought to herself, despair suddenly gripping her spark at the stark reminder of what her new life was going to amount to. There were _far_ worse things coming than Soundwave standing too close to her.

She grimaced at the thought.

"Then _stay close."_

She blinked, having temporarily forgotten what they had actually been discussing in the midst of her panic. The proximity of the C.O. and the fear coursing through her circuitry rendered her vocoder virtually useless, spark whirring at a million miles a klik. Their heights were fairly comparable, but the way he loomed over her and the cold look in his optics made her feel many times smaller than the Decepticon. It did her pride no good to have Lazerbeak lurking in the background, too, looking mightily amused with the entire exchange.

"Understood?" Soundwave pressed when she failed to reply.

Not trusting her voice to come out as anything braver than a squeak, Sync nodded her helm. When he was satisfied that she had nothing more to say, Soundwave finally stepped away from her, giving her room to breathe again. His grip still remained on her wrist, however, and when the elevator doors opened he was leading her out and towards the boarding station to a large shuttle, already packed with more Decepticons. She recognised the glyphs indicating _Trypticon_ on the sign besides the boarding platform.

He finally released her as they sat down together, Lazerbeak perching upon the rails above to survey the area around them. To her delight (not), the seats faced inwards and towards one another, and she was forced to stare at the centre of the aisle to avoid making eye contact with anyone around her. The aerial-based bot directly opposite her, in particular, seemed to be burning holes through her armour with his optics. She curled her hands into fists in an attempt to distract herself and keep her cool. She'd had enough close-encounters for the day, and her spark was still whirring from her last one with Soundwave. There was no reason to start trouble onboard the shuttle, too.

"Officer Soundwave."

The aerial mech received a polite nod of acknowledgement.

"New slave?"

"Affirmative."

"Think I'll need a replacement soon, too. Mine never seem to last long."

What was _that_ supposed to mean?

Sync glanced at the aerial mech sharply, optics narrowing at the familiarity of his faceplate. This was somebody she should have recognised by reputation, she felt, rather than somebody that she had personally encountered. There was a sharpness to his features that she found unpleasant, and the cruel grin he directed towards her made her insides shrink.

"Vortex: too enthusiastic for Autobots," Soundwave noted with a hint of humour.

 _Vortex?!_

Sync recoiled from the aerial mech, all the more sickened by the conversation now that she knew his identity. Vortex the interrogator. The _torturer._ He possessed a fearsome reputation for cutting Autobots to pieces first and asking questions later, taking a passionate and sadistic interest in any prisoner that landed in his clutches. Interrogation by him was basically a death sentence.

That had been back during the war, though. It seemed nothing had changed.

Vortex laughed. "I can't help myself. Especially once they start getting all mopey. Have to keep pushing them further just to get a slagging reaction." He sighed, as if to emphathise how inconvenienced he was by his slaves having _feelings_. "I miss the days where I could cut 'em up without worrying about the aftermath."

There was no way she could be hearing that correctly. Who in their right fragging mind would ever give _him_ an Autobot? Let alone multiple! A mech who already had an affinity for exploiting the vulnerable and defenceless? Sync's lower lip component curled in disgust, wondering how many Autobots he had been through already. Was that what they were to the Decepticons? Expendable entertainment? Some type of toy that they could break, discard, and replace at will?

"Oh, don't like that, do you?" Vortex chuckled, startling Sync out of her thoughts. He was actually addressing _her._ Of all the Decepticons to take notice of her, this was one that she would have preferred remaining invisible to. "Your comrades have the cutest ways of begging. As if you actually think it might make a difference."

Sync's optics narrowed, finding the mech's comments distinctly less funny than he did. As much as she wanted to bite his helm off, however, Soundwave's presence inclined her to hold her glossa. He had warned her _twice_ about other Decepticons, now. And she wasn't looking for a repeat of their confrontation in the elevator. It was just unfortunate that he was making himself very difficult to ignore - and that her stubborn silence merely seemed to fuel Vortex's amusement.

"I do love the noises you slaves make. Mechs just yell and shout and threaten. But you femmes, you really know how to _squeal_." Sync's hands tightened in her lap. It didn't go unnoticed. "Of course, can't do much else when your glossas been cut out, can you?"

She couldn't tell whether he was being honest or digging for a reaction, and quite frankly, she didn't want to know the answer. Knowing that the Autobots would have little to no rights on the outside was one thing, but hearing about the monstrous acts their sadistic opponents could get away with was another entirely. Admittedly, she hadn't given much thought to what the Decepticons could and couldn't get away with. Her concerns had (perhaps rather naively) started and ended with the berth.

She risked a sideways glance at Soundwave, wondering whether he would intervene with Vortex's obvious attempts to wind her up. As it happened, the Officer did not appear bothered nor surprised by the Combaticon's admissions of torture. He might as well have been discussing something as mundane as the weather, given how unconcerned Soundwave seemed. Rage and disgust compressed against her chestplate as she glared at the monster opposite her, competing for the urge to either purge her tanks or punch the mech in his smug little faceplate.

Probably both, provided he kept opening that stupid mouth of his.

"Such a shame you Autobots are all so fragile. You'd be so much funner otherwise." He leaned into the aisle towards her, a sadistic glint in his optic. "I wonder what your screams are gonna sound like?"

She couldn't take it anymore. All rational thought flew out the window as she launched herself at the smirking 'Con, uncaring as to how destined she was for failure.

Sync had anticipated that, perhaps, Soundwave would stop her. That Vortex, having intentionally been pushing her buttons to begin with, would have been prepared for such an attack and would easily subdue her.

She had not, however, expected her own body to be the one to betray her.

Her aft had barely cleared the seat when system warnings exploded before her optics. Override protocols immediately kicked in to slow the movement of her body, _"system failure imminent"_ flashing across her vision as she crashed to her knees in the middle of the aisle. She desperately wrestled for control over her unresponsive limbs - further egged on by Vortex's raucous laughter in the background - but her second attempt to smack him across the jaw produced additional overrides and little more than a weak twitch of her arm.

By that point, the laughter did not just belong to Vortex. The Decepticons around them were teetering with amusement and, cutting through them all, was Soundwave's distinctive chuckle. It was his hand that pulled her limp chassis back towards him, resting her on the floor between the safety of his legs (ugh, _again_ with the safety word). She could do little to resist him. Her body no longer seemed to be her own as she remained there, optics dimmed and form slumped against the bottom of his chair.

Error messages mercifully clouded her view of the mirthful Vortex, informing her that the "threat" had been terminated. Additional prompts signaled the rebooting of her systems; a recovery procedure in response to her processor nearly crashing itself.

What the frag had just happened?

"She really is fresh out the Cells," Vortex jeered, earning more laughter from the observers.

Soundwave squeezed her shoulder strut in warning, then released her. As anger faded into humiliation and confusion, control of her frame gradually returned. She flexed her digits experimentally, relieved to find that the shutdown was not permanent. _Whatever_ the cause was. She had experienced something similar with the Decepticons on the street, but had assumed her inability to act had simply been a side-effect of her own panic and how long it had been since she'd had a chance to fight anyone. Now she was concerned there was an actual malfunction inhibiting her ability to fight back.

 _Or an intentional one._

Strika's words came back to her - how she had wanted Sync to remember that _she_ had been responsible for the installation of the reprogramming. Was this what that was? A way to prevent the slaves from staging any form of resistance against their captors? A way to - she swallowed as the thought dawned on her - prevent them from having any way to _defend_ themselves?

Vortex's smug expression practically answered her unspoken questions for her. Yes, it was _just_ like the Decepticons to mess with a bot's processor. To leave them vulnerable and defenceless and completely at the mercy of their barbaric whims. They had altered the Autobots' systems in order to counter the inevitable violence and hostility that bots would lash out with, to ensure they remained complacent and helpless in their oppression. Good little slaves that didn't hurt or rebel against their great _masters._

Anger began to bubble up from her chestplate again, but this time she noticed the subtle slowing of her systems, the reprogramming already preparing to counter any subsequent aggression. No wonder nobody attempted escape. They had messed with their coding, changed the very foundations of their _being._ The Autobot slaves, she realised with a downtrodden spark, had been utterly and irreversibly damaged.

Oh, yes. Strika would have absolutely loved this.

* * *

Sync tried not to be impressed by the command centre.

She really, _really_ tried not to marvel at Trypticon's high walls and elegant architecture. The former Decepticon base had been converted into a beacon of modern science and engineering, somehow managing to combine both concepts of being simulatenously intimidating and beautiful. The command centre, in particular, was a gargantuan symbol of the Decepticons' strength. The outer walls formed a cone-like structure around the inner buildings, encircled by a smelting pit that meant its singular entrance was accessible only by a bridge with a large, Decepticon emblem emblazened upon the top.

The guards posted outside the entrance took one look at Soundwave and Lazerbeak and opened the doors, whereas Sync was not spared so much as a glance. She was already growing accustomed to being treated like she didn't exist. Like she wasn't anything more than Soundwave's shadow. After her encounter with Vortex, she was more than okay with that.

Passing through the outer walls led them into a vast foyer, broken up by twisting, crystal-infused pillars that suspended the high ceiling above them. The walls had been carved and gilded with intricate stories of the war - Decepticon victories, she would assume, and thus paid little attention to the details. Another reminder of their conquests, to those who would prefer not to be reminded. Bots of various shapes and sizes milled about despite the late hour: some of them, Sync realised with a lurch in her fuel tanks, fellow Autobots.

She almost missed them entirely, largely due to the way they kept their optics downcast and would edge their way around the fringes of the room. It was evident that they did not want to be noticed - and, in turn, they did not seem to notice Sync.

The Decepticons were not much bolder; at least, not while Soundwave and Lazerbeak crossed the floor. It was hard not to notice the resentful looks that were thrown towards the pair when their backs were turned, nor the way that bots would intentionally skirt around them to allow a wide berth. An uncomfortable feeling prickled down her spinal struts as a few even cast her cold glances, and she picked up the pace to be a little closer to her guides. Apparently they were not overwhelmingly popular - probably to be expected, considering their position of favour and reputation. Soundwave certainly wasn't someone to piss off.

 _Perhaps you should heed your own advice,_ she snorted to herself.

Closer to the centre of the foyer sat a towering projection model, the details of which became clearer as Sync was led further into the lobby. The fearsome form of Megatron - claw-like hand raised in a gesture of victory, perfectly captured in a moment of fury and arrogance - was predictably the most prominent feature. His all-seeing optics glared down upon his subjects as they passed by, ominious and looming as he seemed to track their every move. Even in holoform, Sync found herself averting her gaze from the warmonger. Primus save any Autobot that would be unfortunate enough to catch his attention.

It wasn't until she was much closer that Sync could discern the forms that the exalted leader had raised himself upon; Autobots, she quickly surmised, crushed beneath the heels of his pedes. Her pace began to slow as she took in the faceplates of her fallen comrades, all belonging to known soldiers that had joined the struggle on Earth. Ironhide, Sideswipe, Ratchet... each one of them, expressions frozen in perfectly detailed misery.

As they circled around the side, she was surprised to find that Optimus was not amongst them.

But Bumblebee was.

Sync stopped in her tracks, mouth slightly agape at the uncanny likeness that the replication bore to her brother. It should not have been a surprise, of course. Artists of projection models were incredibly skilled at capturing the essence of a bot - particularly those that could make a monster like Megatron look, daresay, kingly. But she had not seen the yellow scout in so long. Looking upon his faceplate again had brought an unexpected barrage of emotion - grief, fondness, and (most prominently, as the memory of his fate dawned on her) _anger_.

"Autobot."

She glanced towards Soundwave and Lazerbeak, who were watching her expectantly a few feet away. Right. 'Stay close.' With a resigned sigh she turned away from the projection model and followed them further into the command centre, silently promising herself that she would return to that foyer at some point. And she _would_ return. No matter what slag the Decepticons would subject her to - no matter what life with _Soundwave_ had in store for her - she would get through it. If not for herself then, at the very least, for Bumblebee.

Her optics narrowed at Soundwave's back, though this time a wry smile was on her faceplate. What _would_ her brother say to her now, she wondered.

 _You_ _always said I had the worst luck._

A second level of security allowed them into the inner compartment of the fortress, then a silent elevator ride to the uppermost levels of what looked to be a housing institute. Her suspicions were confirmed as Soundwave tapped his access code into his apartment doors, carefully angled to prevent her from seeing, and entered. Sync hesitated only for a moment before following him inside.

The apartment was, unsurprisingly, impressive in size. The common room had ample seating for a bot that did not seem concerned with entertaining company, arranged in a semi-circle that faced towards a wide, one-way window that looked out over the rest of Trypticon. A large holoscreen was suspended against one of the far walls; out-of-the-way and thus, she assumed, rarely put to much use. Not quite so expected was the amount of decorative pieces that adorned the walls and side tables. She would have assumed the stoic Communications Officer to possess a more simplistic taste, than any form of artistic appreciation.

Her gaze wandered towards the only open door in the apartment, which led into what could have only been in Soundwave's study, judging by the desk with the datapads neatly stacked upon it. The other three doors were firmly closed, Lazerbeak disappearing behind one of them once Soundwave had dismissed him with a wave of his hand. As much as she disliked the creepy avian, she found herself desperately wishing for him to come back.

 _Please don't leave me alone with this headcase._

Apparently not telepathic - or (perhaps just as likely) merely unsympathetic to her plight - the bird did not return.

Sync chewed the inside of her cheek plating, purposely looking anywhere except the Communications Officer as an uneasy silence fell over the room. Now what? It was a question she, unfortunately, knew the answer to.

Feeling acutely awkward, Sync opted to ignore Soundwave for as long as possible and approached the window on the opposite side of the room. Rather than scare herself with thoughts of what was to come, she focused on the courtyard that lay far below them; a pretty addition to the otherwise imposing structures it was surrounded by. Between the sun sinking below the horizon and the great height that she was at, she could not make out much of the contents. She could, at least, appreciate the creative light design that zigzagged and refracted over the buildings that enclosed it. It was the first beautiful thing she had seen since she'd stepped foot onto the Decepticon-controlled Cybertron.

With little more to discern she turned her gaze upwards, unsurprised to find that no stars were visible. There was, however, a strange spherical shape hanging above them - Earth, she realised, with a sad twinge in her spark. Decimated and torn apart by the the gargantuan Cybertron entering its atmosphere. From such a distance it looked even smaller than Cybertron's old moons, which only made her feel all the more sorry for the defenceless inhabitants.

"Outdoors, temporarily prohibited."

Sync's optics narrowed at the Decepticon's reflection in the window, annoyed and yet not surprised by his instruction. One innocent little escape attempt and suddenly nobody trusted her. Go figure. Of course the reasonable solution was to limit her freedom further; throw her into an apartment with a nice view and awful company and hope _that_ was enough of a punishment to deter her from attempting it again. Her sad and miserable existence certainly would not serve as further motivation to get the Pit out of there. What kind of silly logic would _that_ be?

She huffed in annoyance, glaring at the courtyard below. It now seemed more of a cruel tease than anything of real interest.

"It's not like there's a lot of places I can run."

"Escape, not my concern," Soundwave said, his voice disconcertingly close.

Her armour prickled uncomfortably as a shadow fell over her form, a quick glance at his reflection revealing that he was standing directly behind her. Far too close. She jerked away from the digits that brushed against the contours of her spinal struts, glaring at him over her shoulder.

"Surely, you don't mean to say you don't trust your own comrades?"

Her biting sarcasm was merely a product of his close proximity than any real bravery on her behalf. Sync could feel the hot air from his vents ghosting over her back, his intense gaze burning holes straight through her helm. Every fibre of her being screamed for her to get out of there - to flee to the opposite side of the room, to not be so foolish as to allow herself to be trapped between him and the window. It was only by some miracle of will-power that she managed to hold her ground.

"Decepticons: aptly named."

She snorted to herself, but otherwise gave no outward reaction to his words. A suitable name, indeed.

A tug on her shoulder brought her faceplate-to-faceplate with him, her instinctive recoil winding up with her pinned against the same window that she had been using to ignore him. Soundwave's armour was uncomfortably hot against her own, and a smug smirk had found its way onto his faceplate - apparently amused by how easy it was to box her in. Not exactly a hard feat when she shrank from any form of contact. Sync gritted her denta in frustration and pushed against his chestplate - weakly, thanks to the intervention of the reprogramming - but accomplished nothing more than having her hands _voluntarily_ touching him.

His hand deftly traced the neon stripes on her abdomen, eliciting an involuntary shiver from her chassis. Her arms dropped to her sides to try and shield them as best as she could, shaking her helm stubbornly even as her cooling systems kicked up a notch. It had been a lifetime since anything other than an Energon prod had been jabbed into that sensitive circuitry. To have anybot touch them... _nicely_ after eons of abuse was simply confusing to her systems.

"Autobot-"

"Sync," she snapped at him.

It was not that she had forgotten her fear that made her so bold. Quite the opposite, in fact. She was becoming increasingly claustrophobic the longer she was trapped against Soundwave, absolutely _not_ helped by the feeling of his evil Decepticon hands on her. Her vents were desperately attempting to kick into higher gear, though she was terminating the automatic command based on the fact that he might mistake her as actually being aroused by him. More like his overheating plating was mucking with her internal temperature gauge.

The Communications Officer did not appear at all perturbed by the interruption nor her rude tone - in fact, she was beginning to wonder whether he had any emotional settings other than smugness or neutrality. His blank expression was so well-practiced, it was hard to tell whether there were even any feelings left for him to guard.

"Sync," he corrected himself, though the way he said her name made her instantly wish she had let him stick to Autobot. His optics gave her a final once-over before he stepped away, finally allowing her to relax - albeit only a smidgen. "Come."

Several excuses passed through her helm as to why she couldn't follow him into the berthroom. Several more excuses died on her glossa before she got the chance to voice them, much thanks to the rising panic that seemed to reach up and choke her vocoder. She had known this was coming, of course. _Everyone_ knew that interfacing was practically the sole purpose of their enslavement. And yet that wasn't helping her to unroot her pedes from the floor. That wasn't stopping her digits from digging into her palm in an effort to quell the out-of-control whirring on her spark.

 _You have to be strong now._ _Or you'll never be strong again._

She vented a deep breath and followed Soundwave into his chambers, one reluctant step after another. The first thing her optics fell upon was his berth - pushed up against one side of the wall, and more than large enough to accommodate the pair of them, with extra room to spare. An additional door sat on the opposite wall to the berth, which she assumed led to his personal wash racks.

At least she wouldn't be sharing with the rest of the Decepticon forces.

Sync hesitated in the middle of the doorway, trying to keep a firm hand on the uneasy confidence that she had managed to summon back in the common room. Nonetheless, she almost jumped out of her armour the moment Soundwave touched her again. He gently pulled her further into his ( _their?)_ chambers, directing her to take a seat next to him on the edge of the berth. Her processor seemed to shut off as soon as his hands were upon her, remaining frozen in the same position that she had been placed in; spinal struts rigid, hands in her lap, and gaze fixed on the opposite wall.

It took her a few moments to register that he had stopped. She blinked a couple of times, as if coming out of a daze, before daring to shoot him a confused look. Soundwave was... frowning?

"Speak."

"What?" Sync stared at him, bemused. "What do you mean _speak?_ What am I supposed to say?"

Soundwave's frown deepened, transitioning from troubled to downright displeased. Sync yelped as she was suddenly pushed onto her back, the discs that decorated Soundwave's arms igniting with electricity and releasing a not-entirely-abhorrent pulse through her chassis. A muted noise of surprise escaped her vocoder, the residue current leaving an unfamiliar yet sensual tingle in its wake. Hold on, that wasn't fair-

Sync unwittingly arched into his hand as he continued to administer the pulses along her abdomen, digits skillfully dipping between the cracks of her armour to toy with the sensitive circuitry underneath. Her systems hummed their approval, yet her lip components remained firmly pressed together as she obeyed some small, stubborn part of her urging her to be silent. To not give him the satisfaction, though she was already beginning to forget why that mattered in the first place. How long had it been since another mech had so much as touched her, let alone like _that_?

Lip components were suddenly upon her own, finding hers neither eager nor resisting, yet returning the kiss all the same. _Instincts,_ she would later assure herself. And the way that she tilted her helm back to allow him easier access to her neck cables, that was just... well, that she would chalk up to plain foolishness. There weren't many ways she could explain that one away.

Sync bit back a gasp as he began to trace patterns over her inner thighs, grabbing his arm in an to attempt to slow his progress. The momentary break was enough for her to gather her flustered thoughts - enough for revulsion and loathing to hit her like a brick to the faceplate. Her thighs were tightly pressed together as a long-forgotten warmth slowly coiled in her lower abdomen, her vents switched to a higher setting without her authorization, desperate to cool her now rapidly-heating systems. Frag, what was she thinking? More importantly, _why_ was she thinking?

Her mind immediately snapped to all the evil deeds that he had committed as he caressed her again, all the innocent Energon that stained his hands. _Soundwave._ She was with _Soundwave._ And she was _getting off on it._ It was enough to make her want to purge her tanks.

 _This isn't what I meant when I said be strong._

Sync shook her head urgently when his arm electrified again, a weak "no" passing her lip components. She did not want this - let alone have her body tricked into _enjoying_ it. She couldn't believe that she had made it so easy for him. He'd almost duped her into thinking that she might've... that she would willingly... _ugh._

The Decepticons really did live up to their name. And he was certainly no exception.

Soundwave searched her faceplate curiously. "This does not need to be unpleasant."

How could it be anything _but_ unpleasant?

Sync jerked away when he touched her again, doing her best to disregard the shiver that accompanied the feel of his digits on her thighs. An action that would have been enticing and _pleasant_ in any other situation, but evoked little more than numbness and terror in her current state. She could not ignore the way her hands were shaking, and she was sure he had already noticed, too. Primus, what would Bee think, had he just witnessed what she was about to do?

"Please," she finally said, disgusted with how pathetic and _small_ her voice sounded. "Just get it over with."

Soundwave's gaze remained on her faceplate for a few more nanokliks, something akin to regret flashing through his optics. Just as quickly as it appeared, however, it was gone again. Sync offered no resistance as he pushed her legs further apart and positioned himself between them, his digits fumbling with the catch on her interface panel. She turned her helm towards the wall and dampened her audio receptors, doing her best to tune everything out - _particularly_ the wanton throb that answered him as he pressed himself against her.

To think it was only the first night of many.

* * *

 **Ugh, the ending was tough. Almost as tough as trying to keep in-character with Decepticons that got like three lines in the movie. (Who? Me? Salty? Pft.)**

 **Also, I never write sex scenes - let alone non-explicit sex scenes, the concept of which blows my mind a little. I deeply apologise if it was poor and hard to read... it's definitely something I need to learn how to do.  
**

 **As always, let me know what you think (positive or otherwise)! x**


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